


Like Stones

by Daimhin



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, F/M, Falling In Love, Female Reader, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Mild Language, Mild Sexual Content, Non-Graphic Smut, Prostitution, Reader-Insert, Size Difference, Slow-ish burn, World of Ruin, hunter!Ravus, language barriers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:10:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 50,799
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21559081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daimhin/pseuds/Daimhin
Summary: You’re a refugee from Accordo making it through the Long Night on sheer determination.Ravus is silently, desperately trying to find a way to stop wilting in the darkness.Your paths cross.
Relationships: Ravus Nox Fleuret/Original Female Character(s), Ravus Nox Fleuret/Reader
Comments: 118
Kudos: 173





	1. Marketplace Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to my incredibly self-indulgent and predictable novella. I’ve been working on my brevity, and I hope it shows. _*slaps fic*_ This bad boy can hold so much trash and cliches that I can't seem to live without.
> 
> I hope you enjoy it, too. <3

Blood and filth dirties the water in the basin. Lukewarm, it’s pleasant but disappointing on your aching hands. You taste your most recent client on your tongue still, musky and ripe. You make a mental note to look for a new toothbrush the next time you go to the market.

The skin around your fingernails is torn, the sting of the water keeping your fingers curled. You shake your hands with quick flicks of your wrists. Those are sore, too. Overused, like every part of yourself.

Your gil is folded and tucked into the waistband of your skirt. He’d given you half up front, a rule so few actually followed. You don’t know where your panties are. You make another note to look for more of those in the market, too. The sticky pull of the skin between your legs is uncomfortable but familiar. You tear the hand towel from its rung, holding it under the faucet as the murky water drains from the sink. It’s a routine in which you’ve long grown comfortable.

You practice a few Lucian words, stringing them into phrases. You know some well. _ Please, thank you, yes, no. _ You know _ no _ extremely well. You wipe the sweat and cum from your inner thighs, watching the reflection of your lips move in the mirror as you practice.

“You are so beautiful.” That’s the way you _ wish _ it would come out. Lucian is difficult. It comes up from the chest, not quite as guttural as Nif, but nothing like your mother tongue. You’ve been surrounded by it for years now, but just like the darkness, you aren’t used to it. Lucian tastes pungent, like the tanginess of the hunter you’d had in your mouth only half an hour earlier. You miss Accordan just as much as you miss Accordo as a whole.

Rather than let yourself think of home, you practice.

_ “Bee-yuu-tee-ful,” _ you draw out, then pinch your lips between your teeth. You’re not trying to learn Lucian. This is just something to do.

—

You keep your money close and dispersed, split between your pockets, boots, the left side of your bra, and if you were wearing any, there would be some in your underwear, too. Precautions have to be made; the market can be a hostile place.

Your dialect of Accordan, because your home island had been so small, is virtually unknown to any other refugees, even those from Altissia. Lucian rules overall, so you don’t try to talk to anyone while out anymore. Simple nods and the needed _ thank you _ to show that you’re a grateful refugee is enough to get you through. Thanks, you think, for allowing me to give you more gil for a mere toothbrush than it could possibly be worth. You slip it into the bag slung over your shoulder.

Nod, _ thank you, _ move on.

No luck on the underwear front, unfortunately. In your search for something to cover your most valuable bits, you spot a small box two vendors down. Covered in colorful drawings of chocobos, it’s immediately recognizable. You beeline for it, brushing past people in your rush.

You can already taste it, the tiramisu you haven’t experienced in years. A taste of home. It’s going to be stale, but you aren’t above eating a brick hard dessert. You’re not above anything.

Fingers almost touching the bright packaging—it must’ve been made for a holiday or festival—you freeze as it’s picked up by a larger hand. Your gaze trails up the arm, clad in grey drab, to broad shoulders and an angular face framed by silver hair. You have to tilt your head back to look at him, and when he turns away without so much as a glance your way, you frown.

_ “I seen—” _ you try in Lucian, grinding your teeth at not knowing how to say what you want. _ “Me.” _ You point at your nose, but the man is ignoring you. _ “Me one, not you. I seen it.” _

The man withdraws a few bills of gil from somewhere, handing them to the vendor, who laughs at your frustration.

_ “Someone’s got it out for you now,” _ they say to the man in thick Nif tongue.

Oh. You blink in mild surprise, oddly encouraged by the language. Your home had been overrun with Nifs long before you were ever born. So you know the language almost as well as you know Accordan.

The man tucks the little box of tiramisu—yours, it’s _ yours, _ and this is an injustice—under an arm. _ “A gnat may buzz until it grows bored.” _

You cross your arms, scoffing. So they’re both from Niflheim? The few refugees that had been able to make it out of Gralea generally keep to themselves. As rare as you are in terms of culture, you’d thought until now that you knew all Imperial refugees to be found in Lestallum. You live with several yourself in a cramped apartment by the hotel Leville.

_ “You saw me reaching for that tiramisu,” _ you say, rolling your shoulders back to puff your chest out. The man is an entire head and shoulders beyond you in height, but you have to _ try. _ You’re desperate to taste a bit of home again.

He finally looks at you. His eyes are narrow, and you match the scrutiny. Expecting something scathing from him in that typical Imperial way, you’re caught off guard when he turns and walks away.

Your arms fall to your sides. The boxed dessert, along with the man, disappears into the crowds. Only he’s so tall, you can spot the top of his head. You pursue him, your want of the tiramisu too strong a pull to ignore.

_ “Excuse me,” _ you call after him. _ “Stop!” _

He doesn't even spare a glance over his shoulder. _ “Begone.” _

Mere steps behind him, you look at the edge of the box peeking at you from underneath his arm. The cartoon chocobo winking at you is what does it. You pull the strap of your bag tight around yourself, then pick up your pace. With a roll of your wrist and a quick stretch of your arm, you prepare yourself. Then, lurching forward, you grab the box.

The man, clearly startled, lifts his arm in confusion, and you have it. You have the tiramisu. Success! Bringing the box close to your chest, you make a run for it.

He catches you by the wrist only two steps out. His grip is painfully tight, as intense as the scowl on his face when you look back. A swift kick to his shin hurts your toes, but it does the job of loosening his hold on you enough for you to escape. He grunts, reaching for you again. But you’ve done this before, slithering out of his reach just in time for his fingers to do little more than grasp the hem of your skirt.

The fabric pulls, and you trip, falling forward. The ground bites into your knees, scraping skin. The man has unintentionally followed you down, a hand braced near your head to prop himself up. Above you, his eyes widen, then avert.

The steamy, warm Lestallum air hits you fully. It caresses your legs, traveling upward with its humidity until you squeeze your legs together. Realizing your skirt has been hiked up, revealing everything you usually charge people to see, you scream. The man lifts himself, and you swipe at him, hand meeting his cheek.

“Pervert!” It rips out of you in Accordan, and you don’t care if he doesn’t understand.

His scowl is fierce, his eyes still pointed away from you as he comes to a stand. You scramble back, knocking into people’s feet and pulling your skirt down to cover yourself. The moment you bring yourself to a stand, you clench the box in your hand in a hard grip, and you run, confident that he won’t follow this time. There are too many people in Lestallum for him to ever find you, a perk of the severe overcrowding.

You dart between bodies, ducking and skittering past stands on your way through and out of the market. As stated, it can be a hostile place; no one ever said you had to be a victim.

—

The tiramisu is preposterously yet predictably out of date. You feel that the pangs in your stomach are a just punishment for the theft.

—

Work is never slow. Not for any particular specialty you provide. People are people, and they tend to want the same things. There is no pride in your profession. You’re giving the population a service that few others are willing to give. Hunters spend long weeks, even months, out in the darkness, not knowing if they’ll live another day. You’re there to remind them that life is worth living.

A one time reminder that does the job well. Very few ever come to you more than once, and you prefer it that way. No attachments. There’s always a language barrier there, anyway.

One of your housemates, an Imperial woman who’d been fortunate enough to get a job at EXINERIS as soon as she’d arrived to Lestallum, leans into the bathroom while you slide stockings up your legs. Still no underwear, but this would have to do for now. You look up from them to her face. Always judgemental, her expression, but she isn’t without her positives.

_ “A man,” _ she says in abrupt Nif. _ “Tall. Silver hair. Asking for you.” _

You nod. Per usual, you’re being sought out by someone older. Usually they’re much older, twice your age or more. The older the better, in your opinion. They usually treat you more gently, the closer to death they believe themselves to be. Though, the term is entirely relative; you’re never without bruises.

_ “Send him to my room?” _ You’re asking, but you know she will. All of your housemates hate when a man lingers in the common space. You tend to keep business away from home for that reason.

You close the bathroom door, spending the next half hour applying makeup that you know won’t survive the oral he’ll inevitably request. Making them wait is part of the act, though. It gives you time to mentally prepare. Even on your more tired days, when you’re dissociating and merely going through the motions, if you’ve made them endure a wait, they find the experience better. It isn’t, but they think so. Which is all you need to keep making a living.

You ignore the irritated look of another housemate on your way out of the bathroom. Smoothing hands down your knees, still sore from the fall you’d had in the market, you preemptively lament the loss of the stockings. They’re likely going to end up torn. The thought excites you, honestly. You aren’t attracted to any of the people who come to you, but you’re as human as the rest. Would you have stuck with this if you didn’t at least enjoy the act?

You slip into your bedroom, locking the door behind yourself before looking at your guest. The man sitting in the armchair by your dresser halts you.

“Pervert?” you breathe, eyes growing wide in shock.

The man from the market, frowning deeply at you now, is in your room. His arms are crossed, and you clear your throat. If he’s here for sex, you’re not going to turn him away. He _ did _ see more of you than anyone rightly should without paying.

Crossing the room, you turn on the lamp by your bed. The lighting is warm, something most appreciate while taking you. It’s a fantasy they want, someone to come home to, but without the commitment.

_ “What’s your desire?” _ you ask in Nif, placing a hand on your hip and standing by your bed in wait.

The man uncrosses his arms, his long legs widening in stance as he sits forward and rests elbows on his knees. “I want my tiramisu.”

You startle at the Accordan more so than the glare being sent your way along with the words. Your mouth opens and closes, and you take a step back to sit on the edge of your bed. “How did you find me?”

“It wasn’t difficult,” he says. “There aren’t many Accordan refugees that didn’t come from Altissia. Even less with your… predilections.”

You stare at him, taking in his serious expression and the way the yellow light warms his silvery hair and pale face. The Accordan coming out of him so smoothly is much more comforting than you want it to be. You can’t recall the last time you’ve had an actual conversation with someone in the language.

“You didn’t seek me out just to get the tiramisu, did you?” The idea is silly, but even as you say it, you know it’s true.

He nods, just once. “I came to get what I’m owed, thief.”

You return his frown. “I already ate it.”

He scoffs, looking away. “I should have expected as much.”

“I saw it first,” you say, the words rushing out. It had been over a week since you’d stolen the dessert, yet you feel the need to defend yourself. “You stole it from _ me._”

The man gives you a dead stare. “Give me the five hundred gil it cost me, then.”

You jerk up to a stand, balking. “Five— five hundred? You have to be kidding.”

He shakes his head, then stretches out an arm, palm up. “You’ve made me wait long enough.”

You look between his open hand and his serious expression. Then, lifting your arms, you say, “Look around. I don’t have anything.” Hands coming to your hips, you step toward him. “I don’t even own panties. You think I have five hundred gil?”

He actually does look around your bare little room. His eyebrows pinch, and his face warms at the cheeks, the lightest flush you only notice for how pale he is.

“I can warm you for the night,” you offer candidly, tilting your head toward the bed. “But I have nothing else.”

The man doesn’t respond, standing and looking at something on your dresser. You’re reminded of his full height, his build intimidating you even more than his no-nonsense manner of behaving. You start when he picks up something from atop your dresser. An antique brooch. Too important to wear, it was given to you by your mother and had its own place there for a reason. Your only actual piece of home.

“Hey, no,” you interject, reaching for it. “That’s not worth anything.”

He holds it out of reach, looking down at you. “Perhaps not monetarily.”

“Please,” you growl at him, a glare forming on your face as anger begins to well in your stomach. “Give it back.”

Looking directly at you, he slips it into a pocket of his coat, then turns away. He’s too broad for you to reach around him. You want to hit him but hesitate because you’ve been met with swift retaliation before. You can’t afford to be out of commission due to an injury.

“You’ll have it back,” he says as he walks to the door. “When I have my money.”

You follow him out of your room, desperation bleeding out of you. “Please. Anything else.”

He ignores you, and you ignore the stares of your housemates. You grab his sleeve, pulling it so hard he stops to look back at you. “All this for a tiramisu?”

He grips your hand, prying it off roughly. “You deal in pleasure, so you must understand the importance of what’s left in this darkness.”

You grind your teeth, understanding his reasoning but not the accompanying dramatics. He pushes your hand away and leaves your place without another word.

_ “Boyfriend?” _ One of your housemates asks, their Nif feeling like a splash of cold water after so much Accordan.

You scowl at them, stomping back to your room and slamming the door. Robbed within moments, you’re too angry to do little more than wait for your next client.

—

The air is smoky, permeated with sweat. You lean on the bar, grinning at your client for the night. He wants a touch more than you’re used to giving. Nothing extreme; just a drink or two. Meeting him at the bar hadn’t been an issue, but he’d yet to pay you half of the fee up front and keeps calling you _ babe _ in heavy Lucian.

Not knowing what’s being said around and to you has never been an issue. Still isn’t. Not at all. On the third _ babe, _ you excuse yourself, making a motion with your index and middle finger in front of pursed lips. You need a smoke. Badly.

The air outside is just as humid, and the brick siding of the place is wet on your back when you lean against it. People filter into the entrance, lining up past you. A familiar face appears in the crowd, silver hair pulled back in a sloppy bun at the back of his head. You tense, pinching your cigarette between your lips with a hard frown.

He sees you then, and to your surprise, cuts through the line toward you. “Spare a light?” He withdraws a cigarette of his own, taking up space next to you.

You relax a little, digging your matches out from a pocket. He leans down to meet the flame a moment later, his eyes closing on the inhale. His lashes are long and pale. He looks like a ghost, and you think it’s apt for how haunted you feel.

“Give back my brooch,” you say, flicking the match into a nearby puddle.

He holds out a hand, the other holding the cigarette to his lips. “The money?”

You inhale deeply and let out a smoky sigh. It’d only been a couple of weeks since he’d appeared in your home. All you have is… maybe a hundred gil? And you need that to live.

With that thought, you look up and say, “That tiramisu gave me diarrhea.”

He arches his eyebrows, sharp eyes meeting yours. The hard line of his jaw is terribly apparent under the streetlights, and you find yourself regretting your blatant honesty. The man is rude and strange and unfair, but he’s also handsome. Which isn’t something you’re particularly accustomed to dealing with.

“Anyway,” you choke out when it becomes clear that he isn’t going to speak. “You should be thanking me for saving you from that.”

He rolls his eyes, taking a long drag. The silence stretches between you, making itself comfortable. Part of you is convinced you’ll never get the brooch back, even if you do get the money. The thought makes you ill.

“Don’t sell it.” You turn to him again, snuffing out the last of your cigarette against the brick. “Please. I’ll get the money.”

The man’s expression softens. It’s so slight, you almost don’t notice. “You told me it wasn’t worth anything.”

“It’s not,” you’re quick to say. “It’s just… important to me.”

Becoming far too close to picking his pockets just to see if he has it on him, you push off from the wall and give him a small wave as you leave.

—

Your client is trying to speak bits of broken Accordan. It’s… sweet. He’s a big man, covered in tattoos—or one very large one?—and though you’ve only had a few mostly one-sided conversations in Lucian, he has a sort of charm to him.

When you’d left the silver haired thief outside, you’d returned to see a new person at the table with your client. A man with an overbite, wearing glasses. Your tattooed man of the night is trying to introduce him to you, and you’re trying to understand why you need to meet this other person. A threesome would cost extra, and he’d better know that. You look between them, your client a bit gruff in his pronunciation.

“It’s my friend,” he finally says.

The friend lifts his hand in a small, polite wave. “A pleasure to meet you.” The Accordan is a surprise, and it’s the same kind of smooth, formal manner that the silver haired jerk uses.

You scratch your neck, liking the thought of a threesome suddenly. Maybe he could be very clear about what they want. You’d never been able to actually… negotiate with a client before.

Your thoughts are disrupted by the sight of—you can’t keep thinking of him as _ silver haired whatever _—that one particular man walking through the bar. The tattooed man next to you lifts an arm, waving him over, and you’re somewhat appalled to see him joining your table. He looks reluctant, and not just because you happen to be there. His gaze is wary between the two men sitting with you.

You touch your glass, still full, and meet his eyes as he sits down across from you. So he’s friends with Tattoo and Overbite.

Tattoo—your actual client who’s yet to pay—says something in Lucian to the newcomer, but he’s too busy holding your gaze to respond. You wonder, briefly, if he’ll talk to Overbite in Accordan. Maybe the three of you could talk together. One could dream. Even if it does make your client feel left out.

“Ravus,” Tattoo repeats. “Ravus—” He throws a muscled arm around your shoulders, and the man’s attention is broken, his eyes shifting to the one holding you.

Overbite says something in Lucian next. It ends with that same word. Ravus.

“Is that your name?” you find yourself asking before you realize how odd it must seem.

Ravus—that _ is _ his name—doesn’t seem to think so, nodding his head once but offering little else.

You digest this, sitting under the heavy weight of Tattoo’s arm. There’s no groping. In fact, it seems almost congenial. But you hope he pays up soon. The drink he bought you does _ not _ count as any sort of payment.

Someone comes by the table, says something that Ravus responds to, holding up two fingers. You wonder what he ordered, sipping from your own glass. It burns on the way down, and if you’re really going to be taking on _ two _ men tonight, you need it.

Ravus says something to Tattoo once the server leaves, and although you can’t understand it, you get the gist that their relationship toward one another isn’t the best. His tone is curt, cutting even in his low timbre. So… not friends?

Tattoo’s arm leaves you, and they’re all talking suddenly, the three of them. You can’t follow but a few of the words. Overbite blinks hard, looking at you before turning his head away. Tattoo scratches the scruff on his jaw, considering you with a side glance.

The entire tone has changed, and you’re now uncertain. Ravus is the only one who seems entirely unfazed by whatever discussion they’d just had.

“What?” You look between them. “What is it?”

“He thought this was a date,” Ravus says. It comes out so indifferent, and when the server returns with his drink, he nods to them in thanks before sipping from the glass.

“Is it not?” You’re asking Ravus but turn to Tattoo, who’s now crossing his arms.

“Apparently, he’d been unaware he would be paying you.”

You shake your head. “Of course he’s paying.”

Ravus rolls a shoulder, uncaring. “It seems not.”

You look between each of their faces one last time, then scoot your chair back. “I have to go.”

Overbite and Tattoo both seem concerned by this, but Ravus is the only one to speak.

“Why leave?” He takes another drink, nearly emptying his glass. “It’s merely a date.”

You scowl at him as you stand. “I don’t have _ time _ to date. I have to work, so I can pay off my debts.”

“There is no rush.”

You’re tempted to throw your drink into his face but don’t want to owe Tattoo. “Maybe not for _ you, _ but I can’t waste time.” You turn to Tattoo and apologize in Lucian. He lifts a placating hand, understanding on his face.

“One evening shant kill you,” Ravus speaks up.

You point at him with a glare. “It damn well could. Life isn’t easy for any of us, and now I have an insane debt to pay on top of my already meager living.” The want for dowsing him in your drink is stronger than ever. You fight the feeling by closing your hand into a fist and bringing it to your side. “That brooch is all I have to remember my mother by, you unbelievable asshole.”

Ravus blinks, his glass lowering from his lips. Next to him, Overbite gasps lightly. You decide this is the best time to exit, not caring that Overbite had clearly been able to understand the conversation. Such a wasted evening.

Tears threaten you, pooling in the corners of your eyes. It’s annoying, this uncontrollable bout of crying once you’ve gotten angry enough. You wipe at your eyes, not realizing until you’ve stopped at the end of the street that someone is gruffly calling out for you to stop.

Ravus stops beside you, his expression impossible to read in the dim light. He grabs your hand, and you jerk it away, still wiping at your eyes with the other. He scowls, taking your hand again in both of his. One pries your fist open while the other forces something against your palm.

“Take it,” he says, closing your fingers around the item. His voice, much like his hands, is rough, at odds with his words. “Please accept my apologies.”

Uncurling your fingers, you see the brooch in your hand. You look from it to his face. “Just like that?” Before he can change his mind, you shove it deep into a pocket. “You’re giving it back?”

He crosses his arms, strands of silvery hair falling into his face. “If it is as you say, I regret holding hostage something so important.”

“Wasn’t that the point?”

His frown is so sharp, and he raises a hand to pinch the space between his eyes. “There was no point.”

You waffle at that, staring up at him, unsure of what to say next. It doesn’t matter; he keeps going.

“Now that it’s over,” he says, taking a large step back. “I’ll leave you be.”

You still don’t know how to respond, but feel as though you should, in some way. He leaves before you gather the courage to open your mouth.

Leave you to be _ what, _ exactly?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was Ignis referenced to as _Overbite_? Yeah, babey. (His overbite is cute, let's be real.)  
Thanks for reading <3


	2. Ambiguous Altruism

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Because I can't not mess with language, there are going to be bits of both French and Italian words and phrases throughout this work. I'll place a translation for everything in the end notes of the chapter in which the word/phrase appears, but I promise to make it obvious in context.  
Forgive the abuse of italics. That’s also just a Thing that will keep happening.

A knock, quiet at your bedroom door, rouses you after a repetition that could only be endured with a fair amount of patience. You stretch on your scramble from your bed to the door. Opening it with a yawn, you smile sleepily at your housemate. The judgmental one. She holds a small parcel out toward you.

_ “Something came,” _ she says gently, rubbing a dirty hand on her coveralls.

You take the package. _ “Thank you.” _

Closing the door after she walks away, you turn the parcel over in your hands. You’re not expecting anything and don’t know what this could possibly be, although recent events have made you cautious. You carry the package back to bed with you. Sleep pulls, wants you to return to its warm embrace. You get back into bed, tucking yourself into the blankets before tearing into the thick wrapping.

The paper being pulled back reveals a small wad of cash, carefully wrapped by an elastic band. You’re not impressed. Putting it on your bedside table, you sigh and turn the lamp off. Shrouded in darkness, you frown at the newest addition to your uninvited collection of gifts from some anonymous benefactor.

Who is doing this and why?

Sleep returns while you mull over the thought, and when you wake up later, making the rounds of your room for your things, you send a wary eye toward the stuff piled up on your dresser. It consists of mostly money in varying amounts. A few curatives, a stuffed chocobo plush, and a ribbon rest among the wads and small bags of gil.

You make a minute noise of disgust, leaving for the bathroom. If one of your clients has a crush on you, it will have to be shut down immediately. There’s never a note attached, so you can’t even begin to guess who it is. As if you don’t already have other things to worry about.

Like Ravus.

He’s not so much a worry as something that continues to come to mind. Which is the worry in and of itself. You peel your sleepwear off and step into the shower. The water is cold, but it always is. It helps you think, racking shivers down your body and bringing clarity to your murky thoughts.

Ravus is on your mind because he’s the only person, aside from a few of the Altissian refugees staying in the Leville, you’d been able to freely speak Accordan with in this darkness. You’re craving that familiarity, tired of the Nif that burdens your tongue. You wash yourself furiously, wishing you weren’t so desperate.

Another housemate, like clockwork, waits impatiently outside the bathroom. They don’t knock—never do—and you ignore them—as always—on your way back to your room.

_ “That man came by again,” _ they say. _ “With the silver hair.” _

You stop to turn and look at them. _ “What?” _

Instead of answering, they say, _ “You know the rules about having dependents.” _

Scowling, you continue on to your room, slamming the door behind you. Your residency is entirely dependent on your ability to remain alone. No children, no couples, no elder relatives that need aid. It’s always worked for you because you have no one and you’re _ very _ careful when it comes to clients.

Even if, in some bizarre turn of events, you find yourself interested in someone, they would hardly be called your dependent. Least of all someone like Ravus. The hunter is intimidating and likely prefers to be alone himself.

Your thoughts come to a halt, realization dawning on you. Jerking your door open again, you call down the hallway, _ “He came back?” _

Of course, there’s no answer. You hear the shower running and give up with a sigh. You have work to do.

—

Sore fingers fumble with keys, and you can’t wait to wash yourself off. The lock on the front door doesn’t want to cooperate with your aching, uncoordinated hands. Your thoughts are also wandering, as they’d been all day, not helping things.

“I wonder if I could ask around…” you mumble to yourself, considering once again the idea of seeking Ravus out for a conversation.

“You never gave me your name.”

The voice makes you jump, and you drop the keys onto the littered, concrete stoop. Looking over your shoulder, you bend to pick them up. Ravus is leaned against the side of the building, his face expressionless.

“Parli del diavolo…” you breathe as you right yourself. _ And he shall appear, indeed. _

He arches a brow, and you clear your throat, saying your name. Only the given. Surnames hold little weight anymore, and you fear that he’d immediately realize that you’re no one from nowhere if you did let it slip. If he’s half as clued in as he already appears to be, he’d know exactly why you’re alone.

Your name lilts on its way out of his mouth. Something you’ve been plagued with, in terms of your recent Ravus-centric thoughts, is that you can’t quite place his accent. It’s a subtle difference between him and the rest of the Imperials, and it resonates.

You think you understand.

“Do you want to come in?” The key finally slots into the lock, clicking as you turn it over.

You expect him to say no, but he surprises you.

“It would be a pleasure.”

Leading him through the apartment, you offer tight-lipped smiles to your housemates in passing. It’s rare that you bring others home, usually meeting them someplace of their choice and expense. Your housemate’s warning about Ravus comes to mind, but you ignore the thought. It would never apply; you’re nothing more than unexpected acquaintances.

Even that could be too much applied to such nothingness between two individuals.

He locks your bedroom door when you ask, and you silently lament the loss of your chance to take a shower. You aren’t about to leave him alone with your things after the last time.

“You’ve been receiving them, after all.”

You put your bag down and look at him, confused until you realize he’s looking at the assortment of things littering your dresser.

“You did that?” You kick off your shoes, knocking them under your bed so they’ll be out of the way. “Why?” He’s the last person you would’ve thought to be the culprit. 

“You said you’re struggling, did you not?” He crosses his arms, remaining by the door.

“So the money makes sense.” You sit down on your bed, crossing your legs. Knees sore, you gently rub them and give Ravus an amused look. “But the chocobo doll?”

His expression grows stern. “I’m unfamiliar with what pleases a young woman.” His gaze leaves you, his frown sharpening. “I was told it would provide comfort.”

You’re surprised by this, your amusement fading into an unfamiliar, intense curiosity. “How young do you think I am?”

He finally leaves the doorway, crossing your room to sit in the armchair. “Must you ask so many questions?”

“I think I have the right.” You stop rubbing your knees, resting back to watch him get comfortable. “You send me stuff and show up to my home uninvited. It’s strange. _ You’re _ strange.”

He crosses one long leg over the other. Not dainty, but careful. Graceful. “Aren’t you used to passing time with strange men?”

You draw your legs up, your curiosity growing further. “Is that what this visit is about?”

“Absolutely not.” The answer is quick, and his expression is growing more sour by the second.

You fight a laugh, staring at him as he begins to thoroughly brood in your armchair. “Why _ are _ you here, Ravus?”

He looks around your room, no answer forthcoming. You let the quiet rest, wondering if he’s here out of curiosity similar to your own. You appreciate that he’s saved you the trouble of seeking him out.

—

He’s almost impossible to talk to. He responds and probes, but the difficulty lies in your attempts to get any information out of him about himself.

“Give me your hand,” you say, holding out your own.

Still sitting across the small space in your armchair, Ravus frowns. “For what reason?” He looks incredibly wary, and it brings a smile to your face.

You wave your hand, becoming insistent. “Humor me. Most men who come into my room give me much more than a few words.”

His eyes shift between your face and your outstretched hand. Instead of moving to stand, he lifts one of his hands, palm up. You roll your eyes and get up from your bed.

“Take off the glove,” you say, going to your closet to get the footstool you reserve for obtaining things from higher shelves.

When you put it down in front of him, you find him bending and stretching his fingers, his glove resting on his lap. You’re not surprised he chose his regular hand. The other… you aren’t going to say anything. That entire arm is fascinating, mechanical and absurdly ornate.

From the moment you’d first seen him, he’s kept everything about himself hidden—had never officially given you his name—but the arm is impossible to not take notice of. Had you not been so focused on stealing from him and subsequently regaining your brooch, you might’ve said something back then.

It’s too late now. Saying anything at this point would imply that you care, and you don’t. Sitting down on the stool, you take his hand in both of your own. “Have you ever had your palm read?”

He looks down at you, unimpressed. “I have not.”

Holding his hand still with one of your own, you trace fingertips over the ridges of his palm with your other hand. His hand is large, fingers long with scarred knuckles. You feel them against your palm but focus on the other side, of the calluses that mark his skin from obvious years of hard work.

Beginning at the base of his index finger, you say, “You have a lot of confidence and ambition.” Fingertips trailing over the base of each of his fingers, you read his hand as if it’s your own. “And… so much integrity. Interesting.”

“This is ridiculous,” he interjects, though without any attempt at withdrawing his hand.

Your eyes flick up to meet his. “Are these untrue attributes? I wouldn’t know.”

He doesn’t answer, his lips pinching with either impatience or curiosity as he flexes his hand in your grip.

Getting back to it, you study more of his palm. “Vitality is high, but social skills… ouch.” You glance up at him with a small smile. “I suppose I already could’ve guessed that one.”

His pale eyebrows meet in a furrow, and you suddenly notice his eyes are different colors. You blink, looking between them. The corners of his mouth begin to curve with a frown. Your hold of his hand tightens, and you clear your throat. Gently touching the planes of his palm, you continue, “You’re lacking in good intuition.”

His mount of Ifrit is substantial, and you can’t bring yourself to say what that says about him. Any mention of sensuality just feels… out of bounds.

“Aggressive, with the strength to back it up.”

He speaks up as you’re beginning to read the lines between the meat.

“To what does any of this amount?”

You shrug. “It’s nothing more than an observation.”

“My life laid bare based entirely on my hand?”

That is hardly what’s happening. “It’s an old practice that began in my village centuries ago. I’ve always done it.”

He leans forward a little, his expression shifting ever so slightly toward curiosity. You take in the handsome angles of his face, chewing on your lip as he speaks.

“Always? On whom exactly?”

Oh. Releasing your lip, you almost laugh. “I did it for hunters for a while. Before that, it was soldiers.” You can’t believe you’re telling him any of this. “Before them, boys in the village.”

“You say that as if it’s linked to your current occupation.”

So he _ is _ catching on. Warmth comes to your face even though you really don’t have any ulterior motives driving his palm reading beyond your own curiosity. “It began that way,” you admit. “I provide relief and comfort. Most want only the healing without knowing themselves.”

He clearly thinks it’s all nonsense, but you’re not offended. You haven’t read a palm in years. It’s kind enough that he's played along. You’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, for him to push you away and leave. Part of you is shocked that he hasn’t already.

“How do you come to your conclusions?” He’s raising an eyebrow, his frown still in place.

Forcing yourself to look at his hand rather than keep staring at his eyes—you’ve never seen heterochromia in person—you return your attention to his palm. Your fingers skate over his skin lightly.

“The ridges and planes of a person’s palm are represented by the Astrals, Eos, and the moon.” You name them as you touch each spot. You don’t explain what each means; it would be too much. “The largest is Eos, both as a goddess and the planet. And finally,” you say, lightly pinching the bottom of his palm, below his littlest finger. “Luna, the moon herself. Yours is diminished, which is why—”

He pulls his hand out of your grasp. Even though you’d anticipated it, it still startles you. His hand curls in his lap, and you look to his face for explanation. Only, of course, there is none. He looks softly betrayed, his eyes wider than you’d ever seen them.

“Ravus?”

“I’ve had my fill,” he says abruptly. “Your amusement must be satisfied by now.”

You want to say it’s more than that. So few practices of your village remain. Instead, you nod. Standing up from the stool, you stretch and walk away from him. Your body still aches from the day’s work. You’re unclean. Maybe Ravus’ impatience is a blessing. You still need a shower.

When you turn around, you catch him looking at his hand. His eyebrows are furrowed sorrowfully. A moment passes before he realizes you’re watching. Closing his hand back into a fist, he looks away and his jaw tightens.

You waffle a bit before saying, “I’m going to take a shower if you—”

“I assure you, I do not wish to join you.”

You stare at him, at the pinch of his brow. “I was going to say you’re free to stay or go. But I have to clean up.”

He meets your gaze, a soft flush coming to his pale face. He doesn’t say anything, and you don’t wait around for an answer. Things bundled in an arm, you leave him alone, certain now that he wouldn’t disappear with any of your belongings.

You’d read far too much honesty in his palm, and unlike his, your instincts are superb.

—

He’s touching the stuffed chocobo doll when you return. He doesn’t startle, but his hand quickly makes its way back to his side. You walk past him, dumping your dirty clothes to the floor of your closet. The way his eyes follow you would be unnerving if you aren’t extremely curious about him remaining here.

“You can have that,” you say, pointing at the cute chocobo doll. “I heard it comforts.”

He makes a small, irritated noise, facing you. “You’ve spent none of the gil I gave you?”

You glance at the carefully collected bits of cash. “Why would I? I didn’t know where it was coming from.”

“You know now.”

Lifting a hand in a vague gesture, you say, “Yeah, and even that tells me nothing. Were these payments from hunts?”

“Of course.” He looks at you as if you’re simple.

“Okay, but why?”

“Why not?”

You cross your arms. “I’m not going to accept your pity. You were being unnecessarily cruel before, but returning the brooch was enough.”

He stares down at you, and you already know he isn’t going to respond. Your gaze flicks between the lilac and light blue of his eyes.

“I still don’t—” You huff a sigh, becoming annoyed yourself. “I don’t even understand why you took it. You must live and die by tiramisu.”

His jaw is working, his eyes shifting from you to the chocobo plush and back. “You’d caught me in a moment of weakness.” He looks uncomfortable, his shoulders tensing. “There are times in which you wish for nothing more than the darkness to take you. I have a responsibility binding me here, but it is, at times, difficult to see.”

Your arms loosen and uncross, your expression growing slack. “I didn’t…”

He shakes his head, his expression stern. “It wasn’t so much _ what _ you took as it was the mere act. It gave me something to care about, however trivial.”

You find this profoundly sad, though some of it doesn’t quite make sense. If he’s looking for something to care about, what is his supposed responsibility? He looks toward the door, and you feel like lunging. There is _ no way _ he’s allowed to show up here, being mysterious and saying nonsense, only to disappear again. If he really, truly needs something to care about, you can’t imagine why he’d think you worth filling that gap.

You’re a momentary pleasure, not a long-term commitment.

“Ravus,” you say, warmth and discontent clawing uncomfortably at your chest. “I’ll repay the tiramisu. Until then, could you not send me things?”

He inhales deeply, then lets it out with a sigh. You’re bothered by the way it forces you to notice how broad his chest is.

“No.”

You frown up at him in confusion. “No, you’ll stop or—”

“No, I’ll continue to help you.”

It’s your turn to sigh. “It’s not really helping, is it? My place is small; I’m going to run out of space.”

“If not money or simple comforts, tell me what would suffice.”

Finding yourself at an impasse, you resign yourself to his odd and misplaced form of caring. “Alright. Pagla salts. My muscles are sore all the time. And cigarettes. And— and lipstick. I’m running low. Doesn’t matter what color.”

He nods, and he seems to finally relax. His eyes avert, though, as he asks, “And your… undergarment situation?”

You stall, further surprised by this question. “Uh… yeah. Those, too. If— if you’re comfortable with that.” You can’t look at him for much longer. Turning your attention to the things piled on your dresser, you begin to gather the curatives. “Take these. You need them more than I do.”

Ravus shakes his head, but you shove them into his chest.

“Take them so this situation won’t be so strange,” you insist.

“It isn’t.”

You nod while he finally lifts his hands to take them. “Yes, it is. Take them, please. To make it feel less one-sided. This is bordering on whoremongering, which I _ don’t _ agree with.”

With a mildly appalled look, he takes the potions.

You look from the items in his hands to his face, raising a brow. “Or you could make things right immediately by sleeping with me.”

His furrowed brow only deepens, accented by a sharper frown. You don’t really understand his distaste for the suggestion, probably just as much as you don’t understand him as a whole. The value of everything he’d gifted you far exceeds any one night in your bed. He doesn’t seem to realize the depth of his transgression or the uncomfortable position in which it places you.

“Well, if we’re not having sex, then…” You bite your lip, considering your next words. He’s definitely strange, but you’re curious. Which is enough to draw the suggestion out of you. “Let’s be friends.”

There’s a delay. The curatives clink against his metal hand as his fingers shift. Then he nods, as if _ he’s _ the one being roped into it. “Very well.”

—

You spot him on the edge of the city by the main gate. It’s where most hunters congregate, either on their way in or out. You don’t know whether he’s coming or going, but it hardly matters.

“Ravus,” you call across the bustling courtyard. Heads turn toward you, but only his attention is important. You can see the sharp line of his frown even from your distance. Weaving between bodies, you meet him with less reserve than you rightly should. You hardly know this man.

“These are for you,” you say, offering him a small bag of candy. You’d been pleased to find them, had even used some of the funds he’d given you. Sweets are absurdly expensive now, so you didn't have much choice anyway. These are chocolate covered espresso beans that, if he likes tiramisu so much, he should enjoy.

He takes the bag after a moment of hesitation. “Thank you.”

You nod. “They’re probably hard and calcified by now. So you’ll have to suck on the chocolate for a while to soften it.”

He purses his lips at your advice, and you ignore it, getting something else out of your bag— the ribbon he’d given you before. “Here.” You nod again, this time at his metal arm. “Let me tie this somewhere.”

He takes a step back when you lift the ribbon.

You lower it with a frown. “I found out what this does. I don’t need protection from sudden death, but you probably do.”

While shoving the small bag of candies into a pocket, he grabs your wrist with his other hand. “Keep it.”

You shake your head, not understanding him. “Why?”

“You may very well need it.”

“I’m telling you I won’t. Why won’t you just take it?”

He lets go of your wrist, taking the ribbon from you. “Always inquiring. Long has it been since I’ve endured such stubbornness.”

The words themselves seem as though they’re meant to be sharper, but he sounds tired, almost amused more than anything. He holds the ribbon between his hands and softly orders, “Hold your hair up and turn around.”

It’s your turn to hesitate. The ribbon is a dark, royal purple. You’d genuinely thought he would let you tie it to him for how well it matched the accents on his ridiculous arm.

Slowly pulling your hair out of the way with a hand, you turn around for him. His hands coming around your shoulders makes you tense for a moment. It’s unfamiliar, this sort of touch. His fingers are gentle in bringing the silky ribbon to your throat. The metal hand is cold on your skin but no less careful than his flesh brushing at your nape. You relax as he ties the ribbon there, letting go once satisfied.

“There you are.” He says it with finality, and you let your hair fall and turn to look up at him.

“I don’t need this.”

He isn’t having it, his expression unamused. “Given the way in which you earn a living, I believe you may.”

You open your mouth to tell him you’ve been doing this for years and knew how to handle yourself, but he cuts you off first. “Not everyone willing to venture into the darkness is trustworthy or stable.”

You bite the inside of your cheek. You can’t argue, but it’s not as if this isn’t something you aren’t already well aware of. Rather than respond, you look around. You’d done what you came here to do. Now you wonder if you can attract a client since you’re surrounded by so many hunters. Oddly, though, no one’s meeting your eyes. In fact, it’s as if everyone is giving you and Ravus a generous berth.

That is except for Overbite, who you’re now realizing has been standing nearby. He nods politely, and you wonder if he’s been listening.

Frowning at the thought, you look at Ravus. “Be careful.”

He nods. “Of course. Same to you.”

“Right.”

Ravus arches an eyebrow, and you’re not sure why you’re still standing there. Turning on your heel, you decide to look for work in your usual haunt across town. Your hand goes to the ribbon at your neck on your way out of the courtyard.

—

_ “I like that. It’s sexy.” _

You button up your pants, blinking at your client’s sudden statement. He’s a regular. Your only one, actually. He talks entirely too much but pays well. You’d originally thought him the perpetrator of the onslaught of gifts. You’re glad he wasn’t because he’s your only guarantee for money each week.

_ “What’s sexy?” _

He nods toward you vaguely while pulling his jacket back on. His eyes are very blue, and his hair is very blond. If you hadn’t been subjected to such bold features in every single imperial soldier who’d been stationed on your island, you’d find him attractive. You think his name is Henri or Halbert. Something that reeks of Niflheim and begins with an H.

_ “The ribbon. Is it an invitation to be rough with you?” _

_ “You’re already rough with me.” _

He laughs. _ “Rougher, then.” _

Biting your tongue, you bend to put on your shoes. He gropes you as he passes, but it’s so brief, so _ typical, _ that you don’t mention how he hasn’t paid to touch you that way.

_ “Did you get it from someone?” _

You tense, an unintentional reaction that you fix immediately. _ “What makes you think that?” _

_ “Since when do you shop on the hunter’s end of the market? Something like that isn’t sold next to wheels of cheese.” _

_ “I found it.” _

He makes a quiet _ hmm _ at your answer. You don’t owe him any sort of explanation, so you offer him none. Afraid he’s going to ask, as he often does, to be your only client, you tense all over again.

Several beats pass in silence until he says, _ “My birthday is next month.” _

You nod and pull at the laces of a boot. They bite into the sore joints of your fingers, but you pull tighter to make sure it’s secure.

_ “You should visit me in Meldacio.” _

Looking up at him, you’re given pause at this. _ “Really? Hunter HQ?” _

He does a light stretch, as if _ you _ hadn’t been the one doing all the work moments earlier. _ “Yeah, why not? I always pay you more for the birthday visit.” _

He does. But still… You haven’t left Lestallum since you’d arrived. For good reason.

_ “I’ll think about it,” _ you say, already knowing you’d never leave the safety of the city for anyone, no matter how much money you’re offered.

—

The color is hideous. You stare at yourself in the mirror, the vomit green matte fresh on your lips. You’re shocked Ravus was able to find such a terrible lipstick.

“Wow.”

Oh, it looks even worse when you speak. You laugh a little, bringing up the tube to twist it around in your fingers in search for the name. _ Chartreuse for Two. _ You squint at the faded lettering. There is no way this is chartreuse. The lipstick must’ve gone bad a while ago. Can lipstick even go bad, you wonder.

Another laugh spills from you as you put the tube away. It looks awful, but you can’t possibly discard it. Ravus actually came through. He’d unceremoniously shoved the small tube into your hands, not deigning to even enter your home because _ That’s all I’m here to do. Goodbye. _

Wetting a cloth, you begin to wipe it off, careful to avoid smearing it onto your skin. The last thing you need is a breakout. It’s difficult because another, softer laugh is drawn out of you at Ravus’ quick getaway. You’d tried to take his hand, maybe give it a squeeze while you thank him. But he’d nodded and turned on his heel, leaving you standing at the front door with the ugliest shade of lipstick in existence.

You wring the cloth under running water to get rid of the green and wonder, not for the first time, what hole you could possibly be filling in his life. Far too common is it that your clients will moan the names of women you’re sure didn’t make it. Lost lovers, spouses. It’s clear what they’re trying to forget, which always precedes guilt at attempting to relive something with a stranger.

Ravus doesn’t want to touch or be touched. If not a lover, then what? You know he’s lost someone because everyone has. Some have no one else left. The thought makes your amusement wane. You can make assumptions long into the darkness, but you still think you understand, even without knowing. What sets him apart from others isn’t much different than what keeps you alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation  
_Parli del diavolo... _ \- Speak of the devil...
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


	3. Cooking Confessions

You can’t find Ravus. Days have passed into weeks with no sign of him. It’s as if he’d vanished. You aren’t waiting for him to show up again; you’re seeking him out instead. Patience is easily wasted, and you’re not willing to find out if Ravus’ friendship is worth such a virtue. He’s still sending you goods, but seeing his face is more reassuring than any pack of cigarettes.

There is no one else like him, so putting out feelers into his whereabouts is easy. Magitek arm, intimidating build, hair so light that it washes out his complexion. Everyone knows exactly who you’re talking about. Which makes it all the more frustrating that no news has yet to meet your ears. You realize you don’t actually know anything about him.

It makes your need to see him grow stronger, if only to assure yourself that he hasn’t died. The thought is atrocious, but people are dying and disappearing every day.

_ “The commander that used to visit? I doubt he’s dead.” _

Your housemate—once again judgemental—speaks candidly in reaction to your worries. She’s helping you hog the bathroom, standing in the doorway while you apply your face.

You pause to look at her in the mirror. _ “Commander?” _

She places a hand on her hip. _ “You didn’t know? He was in the imperial army.” _

You’d assumed as much because of his arm. No one, hunter or no, just _ has _ a magitek prosthetic. But for him to have been someone so important feels… odd to you. You suppose he’s always had a bit too much grace to be a regular soldier. Just as he’s too strange now to be a regular hunter. _ “Huh. I’m friends with an imperial commander.” _

She leans in the doorway, and a small laugh escapes her. _ “Never crossed your mind to befriend the enemy?” _

Returning to applying lipstick, you fight the urge to sigh. You have no qualms with people from the empire. There is and always will be social unrest and prejudices between people from different nations, even when you’re all in the same exact, barely-making-it-through situation. Ravus isn’t the enemy. Not anymore.

_ “How do you know so much?” _ You give a pointed look to your housemate.

Her amusement wanes and she shrugs. _ “I pay attention. The ladies at work love to gossip.” _

You send her a rueful smile in the mirror. _ “And you say my job is shameful.” _

—

Meldacio is livelier than you expect. You step out of the dusty, rattling supply truck, curiously eyeing the numerous bodies milling about the place. There’s a fire, surrounded by people at the edge of the massive camp, that catches your attention first. The heat of it reaches you as you stretch.

The hunter who’d brought you along barely gives you a wave before leaving you there. Walking toward the bonfire first, you look between each of the faces, lit in warm flicking yellows by the flames. No Hahnz the Birthday Boy to be found, but someone is singing while another plays guitar. The melody is soothing, and you find yourself standing there, hands lifting to take in the warmth of the fire while you listen. It’s a sorrowful song, derivative of classic blues, you think.

“I beg your pardon.”

The voice speaking gentle Accordan startles you out of the sad sort of comfort the song had been lulling you into. Turning around, you face the source, finding Overbite standing just outside the ring of people that circles the bonfire.

You step away from the warmth, confused by his approach. “Yes?”

He uses a gloved finger to push his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I don’t mean to disturb you, but I can’t help bringing something to your attention.”

You don’t know what this could be about but suspect only one possible thing. You try not to sound overly hopeful when you ask, “Ravus?”

Overbite’s eyebrows arch, meeting that little lock of hair that’s fallen loose from his pompadour. “Indeed. He is planning an expedition with a shared comrade. He’s hindered progress in their plans for the past fortnight.”

You tilt your head, taking in this new information. “So… what am I supposed to do?”

“Are you not his friend?”

With an arched brow, you counter, “Aren’t you?”

He opens his mouth, then closes it. You’re staring, and he doesn’t seem to know what to say.

To save him the trouble of admitting to anything, you ask, “Where is he?”

“This way.” With a curt nod, he walks past you.

He takes you through the large encampment to a much smaller campfire. Waist-high tables and camping chairs litter the area in no particular pattern. At one of the tables, Ravus stands with a woman. His back is to you, and he’s leaning on the table with his mechanical hand resting on the tabletop.

_ “We’ve been through this,” _ the woman says in quiet but biting Nif. _ “There’s nothing there.” _

Ravus rights himself, lifting his hand from the table. _ “It is on the way. Two days more shan’t kill anyone.” _

_ “Extra time spent looking for nothing is wasted time.” _ The woman crosses her arms. _ “Explain that to the men before updating the plans. They’re not going to like it.” _

_ “Perish the thought that anyone could ever hate me,” _ Ravus scoffs.

_ “We’ll need more resources to make up for the added time. I’ll agree to this if you give the go ahead to set out already.”_

The woman pokes him in the chest, and you find yourself stepping forward.

“Ravus?”

He turns your way, his displeased expression easing into soft surprise. The woman’s hand drops as he says your name. Next to you, Overbite excuses himself, but you don’t care, too busy taking in the man you now realize… you’d missed.

His hair pulled back messily, he’s unkempt and unshaven. He looks so much older than before. You chew on your lip, suddenly uncertain. You’ve accepted that you don’t know him, and now its startlingly apparent when you hardly recognize the sight of him after only a month apart.

“Why are you here?” His voice has lost its bite from moments before.

You want to shrink under his gaze. Eyes flicking to the unfamiliar woman and back, you say, “To see someone.”

It’s not _ necessarily _ a lie. You’d come for your client’s birthday, hoping to look for Ravus in the process. It’s the only reason you were able to gather the courage to leave Lestallum. You hadn’t planned to actually find him. Now that he stands before you, his unbuttoned vest revealing his white undershirt, looking scruffy and casual and unlike the side of him you’re used to, you don’t know what to say.

Unfortunately, you don’t get the chance. Someone says your name, and everyone’s attention goes to a new, fourth body to this odd group. It’s Hugo. He smiles when your eyes meet his.

_ “I knew you’d come.” _

You can’t get yourself to smile but nod when he takes a step toward you. _ “Yes. Happy birthday.” _

He looks at Ravus and the woman before putting an arm around you. _ “Let me show you around.” _

Letting yourself be guided away, you send a glance over your shoulder just once and find Ravus speaking with the woman again. Her hands are on her hips, and Ravus is pinching the place between his eyebrows. You don’t know what they’re arguing about. You know even less what Overbite seemed to think you could do to help.

You don’t get to think about it for much longer. As your client’s arm around you tightens, you’re reminded that you’re on the clock.

—

The growls from your stomach keep you awake. While Heinz rests on the floor of the tent, you slip your clothes back on. Showing you around Meldacio had amounted to nothing more than a walk to his tent, where you’d spent hours. There isn’t a chance in the universe that everyone hadn’t heard you having sex. It had been difficult to perform, and you think that gave him more enjoyment. Both your discomfort and people listening in. You’re thankful the area is clear when you step out of the tent once dressed.

Convinced there should be _ someplace _ in the headquarters providing food, you set out to find something to eat. Walking past droves of hunters, all speaking Lucian, gives you a bit of a worry. If you can’t find someone who speaks Nif, you’re shit out of luck. Hand motions asking about food generally make you appear as a panhandler. You aren’t going to risk being mistreated because of a misunderstanding.

Coming to a small campfire, you warm your hands and hope someone notices your peril. Your stomach couldn’t be more vocal about its need for food. After a particularly drawn out growl, you bring your hand to your middle and frown. Are you bitter that Heinrich didn’t so much as offer you a grain of rice before bending you over in his shoddy tent? Of course you are. It burns and wells in your stomach. Or that could just be the acid.

“Are you cold?”

You startle at the voice, suddenly noticing Ravus from the other side of the fire. It washes him in yellow, underlighting his face in an unflattering way. When he rounds the fire to stand at your side, you drop your hands and look up at him. He’s recently shaven and recognizable. Seeing his familiar face brings you comfort you’re not prepared for.

“Not cold, hungry,” you say. “Have any food?”

He nods once without hesitation, reaching down to take your hand. “Come.”

Your fingers curl to grasp his, and you follow him past the campfire to a line of caravans. He lets go of your hand as you near one of them, and you rush to grab his sleeve. He looks over his shoulder but doesn’t speak, opening the door to the mobile home.

The space is cramped, especially with him entering. He takes your hand, removing it from his sleeve, and points you toward an open chair. It’s built into the wall next to a tiny table. You’re amazed, looking around in fascination as you sit. There’s nothing like this in Lestallum. Hadn’t been anything similar back home either.

It’s beyond charming.

You send a wide-eyed look up, up, and further up to Ravus, impressed that he has his own place. Sitting down while he stands is going to do major damage to your neck.

He opens a small refrigerator—even his own _ kitchen?!_—and withdraws a bottle of water. “Here.”

You take it, holding it between both hands. He leans back against the counter, crossing his arms. The pressure to speak grows as he watches you, and though you’d come to Meldacio with the hope to tell him a fair number of things, all of which you consider very important, you can’t seem to say anything. One thing you do know about Ravus is his disinterest in filling silence. So it stretches between you as you work the cap off the bottle and take a deep drink of water.

“You said you had food,” you finally say, putting the bottle on the table.

He gives you a dead stare, then shoves off the counter. “Right.”

Opening the fridge again, he begins to rummage. You watch him as he pulls things out and puts them in no particular order on the counter. He does the same with a cabinet moments later, clearing its contents to create a messy spread on the countertop. Once finished, he gives all of it a prolonged frown.

He doesn’t know how to cook. This becomes clear when he picks up a pot from the stovetop and looks into it blankly. You’d find this hilarious if you weren’t seconds from wasting away. Coming to a stand, you take the single step needed to stand next to him.

“Let me help.”

He doesn’t argue, putting the pot down. His eyes follow your hands as you pick through what he’s collected.

“Most of this is expired.” You push a bag of moldy bread and various other things aside. “And the rest can’t really— Oh, actually.” Putting your hands on a too-soft Altissian endive and a can of beans, you look up at him. “This might be passable.”

You eye the stove, electric rather than the gas-fueled one at home, and make a guess about the level it should be for the recipe you have in mind. Ravus follows your direction, saying nothing while he reaches around you to grab things you say you need. You fight a smile when he doesn’t seem to know whether or not he has a proper tablespoon.

“Just eyeball it.” You chop the endive, occasionally looking up to see how he’s doing.

By all appearances, he’s confident in his motions, spreading oil in a pan while you toss in bits of the chopped up, leafy vegetable. But you can tell he’s never cooked in his life.

A smile escapes, breaking along your face. “You’re the only person I’ve ever met who has a kitchen but can’t cook.”

Ravus huffs, stirring the contents of the pan. You finish chopping and add the rest of what you’ve cut up. He freezes when your hands meet his next. You realize they’re still wet from rinsing the endive and draw them back quickly, wiping them on your shirt.

“Like this.” Your hands touch his again, though it’s hard to set them into the right motions when his are so much larger. “All of it needs to be coated in oil.”

He relents under the soft pressure of your hands. Using the wooden spoon to turn everything over, you focus on spreading the oil. A lean into him makes it easier, and you squeeze his hand that grips the handle of the pan. It’s a prompt to lift the pan a little, which he doesn’t follow. When you look up, ready to tell him to saute it so it’ll be more even, you’re startled to see that he’s not looking at the food but at you.

Your mouth opens, but the directions don’t come forth. You think this is the first time you’ve ever seen him not look like he’s ready to end someone’s life. Closing your mouth, you bite your bottom lip, unable to break the eye contact. The simmering from the pan grows louder, a noise that sounds distant despite the slight sting of the oil popping onto your hand.

A loud growl emits from your stomach, tearing through the quiet. Your hands leave him as you take a step back. Warmth comes to your face, surprisingly pleasant, and you turn away from him to reach for the pot.

“Do you have anything smaller?”

You don’t look at him and don’t move when he leans into you to reach for a higher cabinet above the stove. He withdraws another pot, this one shiny from its apparent lack of use. You can see a muddled reflection of yourself and the greys of him behind you on its surface.

His voice is a breath against your hair, closer than the poor reflection suggests. “Will this suffice?”

You blink before taking it from him. He’s such a strong presence next to you, it’s—intimidating isn’t the word—acute just how much larger he is. You feel as though you could step back and rest against his chest, and he’d hardly notice. Instead of doing that insane thing, you clear your throat. “Perfect, thank you.”

It’s an uncomfortable, sinking feeling that comes to your empty stomach when he backs away. His attention returns to the food already cooking, and you bring your own focus to the next step. He’s doing the right motions with the spoon on his own now. You notice but don’t comment, your cheeks far too heated to look up at him right now.

“Do you know what we’re making?” You put the rest of the ingredients into the pot and don’t wait for him to answer. You know he won’t. “Escarole and beans. I used to make it back home all the time.”

He hums, and it comes from his chest, deep but quiet.

Encouraged by this, you smile at the contents of the pot. “Do you have any nostalgic foods from home you miss?”

You can’t imagine his palette to be particularly impressive. Niflheim is a bread-and-potatoes sort of land, from what you know. Your housemates cook some of the blandest things, and when not tasteless, it’s downright heinous. Just as you’re beginning to think you shouldn’t have asked, he speaks up.

“Tarte tatin.”

Oh? You add pinches of spices to your pot. “What’s that?”

He answers readily. “A tart comprised of fruit and sugar.”

“So you like desserts?”

“When appropriate.”

It doesn’t sound like something that could’ve come from the empire. That odd accent of his even thickens as he says it. You step back to let him add the contents of his pan to your pot, your eyes tracing his broad shoulders. You don’t realize you’re staring until he looks back at you for guidance that he refuses to voice.

You step up to the stove again and look down into the pot. It’s beginning to smell lovely. “Now we wait while it simmers.”

“At what time will it be finished?”

It pains you to say it because you don’t want to wait any longer. “In half an hour.”

He nods, keeping his gaze on the pot. You reach for the wooden spoon to give it a stir, if only to have something to do, but he takes your wrist in a loose hold before you can pick it up.

“Might I suggest you bathe in the meantime?”

Caught off guard, you stare up at him. “What?”

A small frown comes to his face, along with a dust of pink, likely from the heat of the stove. “I understand you’ve worked this evening. It’s unlikely your… friend has access to the same amenities as I.”

The first thought that comes to you is to clarify that the client is _ not _ your friend. But saying so would bring light to the fact that you don’t actually have any friends. None, but for Ravus, at least. Rather than admit to that, you say, “There’s no point if I’m just going to put on the same dirty clothes.”

Ravus lets go of your wrist, turning around, toward what you think must be his bedroom on the other end of a short hallway. “I’ll find something for you.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

He’s already disappearing into the other room, and you look down at the simmering ingredients, listening to him shuffle things about.

You pick up the wooden spoon and stir slowly, raising your voice so he can hear you from the other room. “Thanks, but I’m really okay. I can shower when I go home later.”

He steps into the hallway, and his sharp tone of voice startles you into looking up at him. “You reek of sex and sweat. I insist you clean yourself. For my own sensibilities, if you will.”

The wooden spoon falls loose from your hand, sinking into the pot and catching at the lip. Heat comes to your face, and a spark of something ignites your chest. Humiliation, you think, but you can’t process it with him coming to a stop next to you, towering over you with his— his judgement.

You open your mouth. To insult him for insulting you. To tell him it only makes sense as you’d recently _ had sex. _ To apologize—though why that’s even an option coming to you is problematic all on its own. Unable to maintain eye contact, you look down at the folded clothes in his hands. You don’t know what he’s gathered, but you take it.

“So.” You feel like you could choke. “Your bathroom is just over there?”

He nods, stepping aside as best he can with his mountain of a body in this little caravan.

You walk past him to step into the even smaller space and slide the door closed behind you. Once you’ve put down the clothes, you bring up an arm to smell yourself. It’s unpleasant but no worse than you’d smelt before.

Your mood sours further as you cut on the shower and undress. Who is he to tell you to bathe? You’re his guest! Beggars can’t be choosers—you _ are _ hungry and a little desperate—but pointing out the obvious is just rude. Right?!

The stress melts away against your usually strong will when you step underneath the flow of steamy water. It’s the first hot shower you’ve had in nearly a decade. You could cry. Really. Instead, you use an enormous amount of his minty shampoo and lather yourself in his soaps.

You linger until the water runs cold.

—

The food is delightful, but you’re hesitant to say so because you want to still be annoyed with Ravus. He’d kept it stirred and cooking evenly in your absence, so you settle on, “For someone so useless in the kitchen, you did a good job tending to this.”

He purses his lips, clearly unamused.

“Thank you.” It’s genuine, coming out of you as you bring your spoon up to your mouth. “This friendship has its pros.” Even if he does say things too bluntly for your liking. At least this once.

He stares at what’s in his own spoonful, not looking too sold on the dish despite how he’d spent time cooking it. “Seeing as you’re the only party coming to benefit, I should hope you’d think so.”

You blink and chew on your bite. Incredulity, though an amused sort, comes to you. “Seriously? You refused to stop helping me and now you’re complaining about not getting anything out of this? I gave you those chocolate covered espresso beans that one time, and you refuse to sleep with me as repayment.”

Probably because you smell so bad, apparently. He doesn’t like the smell of sex, and that’s all you ever smell of. It isn’t as if most hunters—people in general—have access to a hot shower like he does. You shove another spoonful into your mouth to keep from saying anything.

He doesn’t say anything to that. After his first bite of the escarole, he seems to take to it and finishes before you do.

You stir the beans and endives around in the oily broth, ready to talk because the silence is becoming unbearable. While he’s getting more for himself, he speaks up first.

“I’m going away.”

You don’t reply until he’s re-taking his seat across from you at the small table. His legs are too long, one of his knees pressing against yours while his other leg stretches out into the open end.

“I heard. Visiting home with others from the army?”

He looks mildly surprised. “So you know.”

“I found out recently.” You shrug, not wanting to explain how your housemate had ratted him out. “You didn’t have to keep it from me, you know.”

“Most people know on sight. It was refreshing to be met with such ignorance.”

You should’ve expected something like this from him. “I already know you’re an imperial. What does your old status in the army matter? Commander or not, you’re just as screwed as the rest of us.”

Maybe even more so, you think. Like you, he’d obviously come from nothing and only ever achieved greatness on the losing side of the war. Not that there was ever a winning side. At least you’d never had—or lost—that taste of power and accomplishment. If he’s talking ignorance, you’ll admit to having plenty of it in that regard.

He scoffs, and it’s not what you’re expecting. His spoon clinks in the bowl as he lets it drop, his arms crossing over his broad chest. “You don’t care what atrocities I committed during the war? Take care that you don’t speak so lightly of which you’ve no hope of understanding.”

The grip on your own spoon tightens. “I was sixteen when the world fell into darkness. Everyone on my island was killed after the attack on Leviathan. I only made it out because one of the soldiers took pity on me.”

He says nothing, his expression remaining unchanged and reproachful. You wish there could be a way to express your point of view without admitting so much about yourself, especially when he’s admitted to so little.

You sigh and make yourself let go of the spoon. It rattles as it lands against the bowl, and your fingers tangle in your lap. “Maybe he felt guilty for helping to kill my family. Maybe he just wanted someone to warm his bed on the journey to refuge in Lucis. Survival isn’t about right and wrong, Ravus.”

This next stretch of silence is expected. Ravus’ face becomes blank, all ire dissolving as his eyes shift between your own. You don’t look away, assured in your admittance. If he wants to dwell on his past, he can do it alone. You’re inviting him to move forward with you, at the expense of your comfort.

Being known is a frightening concept.

His arms loosen, and he brushes his hair out of his face with long fingers. When he speaks, the statement is simple. “I hail from Tenebrae, not Niflheim.”

A beat passes. “Really? From Tenebr—” You cut yourself off, your curiosity piqued more than ever before. There’s been enough sharing today. You bite your lower lip and glance down at your bowl for a moment to withhold the questions now flooding your mind.

Tenebrae? You hardly know anything about the place aside from it being where the Oracles had called home. Back when there _ were _ Oracles. A silly part of you wants to ask if he knew her. The younger one. You don’t remember the one that had come before, but the one who’d died during the deepest part of the conflict had been so young and beautiful. Asking him if he knew her would be like asking you if you’d known Camelia Claustra.

“So…” You clear your throat and look up at him. “You’re traveling all that way. You’ll be gone for months, I’m guessing.”

He nods. That’s all he does, and that marks the end of surprises he has for you. You hope.

You touch the ribbon at your neck. “You should really take this. That’s a long time to be out in the darkness.”

He shakes his head, all of his gestures simple and curt. “I’ve no need. I will not die.”

It’s said with such certainty that you can’t help but believe him.

—

Ravus’ shirt is far too large on you and smells uncannily fresh. It’s not something you notice until you’re on your way out of his caravan. It’s substituting as a short dress on you because his trousers were impossible to put on. You’d left them behind on his bathroom floor after finagling his underpants on yourself. It’s highly embarrassing how much room you took note of in the crotch area. You pull at the hem of the shirt, just above your knees, while you step down the little stoop.

Ravus follows you out, leaving the door open. He’s holding another bottle of water that you’ve already declined once. You pretend your arms are too full with your belongings to take it. Truth is, you feel guilty. He’s shown you more kindness in the past couple of hours—in the past several months, truly—than anyone else ever has. You’re getting fed up with the feeling it leaves in you. How will you ever pay him back at this rate?

“You’ll take it.”

You turn around to watch him descend the stoop after you. His accent being unfamiliar makes sense now, but his way of softly demanding things remains a mystery. He must’ve held much power as a commander, but _ no one _ speaks to you that way.

“I already told you I won’t. I’m fine, Ravus. Thank you.”

He sighs, a move that expands his broad chest. “Take it. Please.” He looks pained to even utter the word.

You hate how it works on you. The bottle of water makes its way to your arms, bundled with your filthy clothes. You’re biting your inner cheek, caught in a weird place. You have so many questions to ask him. Questions you know he won’t answer. You want to thank him ten times over for being such a reliable friend. You also want to tell him to back the fuck off so you’ll have a chance to return the favor.

As none of those are viable options, you say, “Good luck on your journey. Please visit me when you return.”

His silver brows furrow, but he nods. You’re beginning to learn his language. The simple gestures and their significance. A smile comes to you, full and warm. You feel it on your face and in your chest. It burns sweetly, a feeling as fresh and unfamiliar as the absurdly clean shirt you’re wearing.

It isn’t until his attention is captured by something over your shoulder that you’re broken from the moment of admiration. You blink and turn around to see what’s caught his eye. Disappointment hits you, swift and sure.

It’s… Hansel. Or perhaps Humberto?

All you’re certain of is, it’s your client, and he’s looking between you and Ravus with more suspicion than he has any right to.

“I thought the rule was no gifts.” He’s looking at the bundle in your arms. As if the bottle of water is a prize instead of human decency.

“From clients,” you specify. You’re disgusted by the automatic response, but he’s your only regular. You _ need _ him, even if it means reassuring him when you’re not obligated. “He’s a friend.”

“And I’m not a friend?”

You hold back a sigh. This is, frankly, none of his business. You don’t understand where this is coming from. He’s never once given you a present.

“Don’t worry about it.” You step away from Ravus and approach Hubert with a forced smile. “I’d like to go home now.”

To your luck, it works to assure him. He throws an arm around you with a smile. You’re immensely relieved, and don’t realize just _ how _ until you’re relaxing under his heavy arm. He takes the bottle of water from you on the walk toward the edge of headquarters, claiming to be parched after so much rutting hours before.

You don’t argue, though you feel cheated. Climbing into one of the free supply trucks about to leave for Lestallum, you bring the sleeve of Ravus’ shirt to your nose and inhale deeply to take in that subtle, unassuming scent of his. You’d missed him for the past month, and now you’re going to miss him even more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’m not used to such a short story as this, so let me know if the pacing feels off!  
Thank you for all of the comments and kudos I've gotten! I'm so happy to see that there's a love for Ravus still out there.  
And thank you, as always, for reading <3


	4. Generous Gestures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning** for heavily implied sexual assault. Not explicitly described, but tactless in reference.

The muggy air of Lestallum hugs you uncomfortably. You step over wet trash, hair damp from the rain, and send Overbite an incredulous look.

“That _ can’t _be how it’s pronounced.”

He’s quick to reply, “Tenebraen is a complicated language.”

You grip the book in your hands tightly. Its cover is severely faded, a bright blue turned grey. The words _ Bester’s Tenebraen-Accordan Dictionary, Fifth Edition _are barely legible, but the inner pages remain intact.

“It’s not as bad as Lucian,” you insist.

That makes him chuckle. It’s a rare sound from your new acquaintance, but being able to draw it from him gives you a touch of pride.

“I have to disagree.”

“Of course you do. You’re a native,” you point out. It’s true, but he doesn’t particularly sound like one. Accordan rolls off his tongue so well, you’d almost think he’s from Altissia if not for the slight accent.

In Ravus’ absence, Overbite has been a… presence. You’re not sure why he’s taken up helping you learn Tenebraen. After running into one another three times within the same week, he’d asked you to join him in perusing the market. Which had led to you finding the dictionary, and subsequently, beginning impromptu conversational Tenebraen lessons together.

At first, you’d thought him extremely bored and humored him because he's knowledgeable on so many subjects. It helps that he speaks fluent Accordan and tends to unknowingly ward off your regular client—who's grown pushier ever since you'd visited him for his birthday. All in all, you'd liked Overbite when this routine began.

Now…

You look up at him, seeing the soft remnants of a smile on his scarred face. It’s unnerving. Ravus has been gone for two months, and it’s felt like an eternity. He needs to return as soon as possible so you can ditch this guy. You have room for exactly one friend, and with his tendency to not disappear for weeks at a time or go on massively long trips, Overbite has been more present than Ravus ever had.

You don’t like that. It leaves too much room for confusion and misunderstanding. Which is why you have to do what you’re about to.

Coming to a stop at the stoop of your home, you turn to him with a mild sense of regret. It’s something you’ve been meaning to set straight ever since you realized what’s been going on.

“I know how you feel about me.”

His smile disappears. “Pardon?”

You lift a hand, stretching a little to touch his shoulder. It’s best to break his heart now. He may be completely in love with you, but you have no time to date for personal pleasure. You never have.

“I can’t love you in return.”

He blinks, and your guilt grows. Just a little.

Not wanting to draw it out, you let go of his shoulder and look away. “I hope you’ll keep helping me learn Tenebraen, but I understand if you no longer want to see me.” You'd like to thank him for all of the help, but you can't remember his actual name. And it's far, _ far _ too late to ask.

He makes a sound, something caught in his throat. He’s getting choked up, and the guilt in you grows a little heavier. A moment later, you feel him place a hand on your shoulder and gently squeeze. He’s smiling when you look up at him. It’s admirable, how strong he can be in the face of heartbreak.

“I’ll find some way to manage,” he says, alleviating your guilt before he lets you go. “Shall we part ways? I’ve to meet with an old friend in Hammerhead tomorrow.”

You nod, giving him an apologetic look. He clearly needs time to cope. “Later, then.”

He chuckles and catches it with a fist before clearing his throat. “Take care.”

It’s with massive relief that you enter your home seconds later. Although kind, you don’t think you could ever date Overbite. Even if you could somehow find the time. He’s not quite who comes to mind when considering the possibility of dating.

You kick off your shoes once in your bedroom and sit down on your bed with the dictionary. Between the pages are handwritten snippets of conversations and things you can’t wait to say to Ravus. You imagine a blush coming to his face, surprise widening his eyes.

Chewing on your lip, you close the book and sigh. Two months without him, and you feel as though he’ll need to be gone for two years before you’re ready.

—

_ “Hello, harlot.” _

You smile at your housemate as soon as you open the door. _ “What is it?” _

She tilts her head toward something down the hallway. _ “That commander. He’s here to see you.” _

Your smile fades, eaten by surprise. You’re not ready. He can’t be here; you haven’t mastered Tenebraen yet!

_ “I can send him away,” _your housemate says, eyeing you warily.

_ “No, I want him,” _ you rush to assure her. Then, feeling awkward, you amend it by clarifying. _ “I want to see my friend. I’ll go get him.” _

She nods, leaving without pressing, and you follow her until she turns off into the common room. Continuing to the foyer, you remember you’re wearing his shirt. You pull nervously at the hem of it and consider going back to change until you’re stopped short by the sight of him.

For someone who’s been traveling through the darkness for the past three months, he is a pleasant vision to drink in. Shaven face, long hair pulled back messily, hunter garb over his broad frame— you’re briefly at a loss for what to say.

He looks away with a frown. “Is this a bad time?”

You shake your head, reaching for his hand and giving it a squeeze. “You came.”

He looks at your hand holding his. “Yes.”

You pull him by the hand to your room, and he surprises you once the door is closed behind you. His hand tightens in yours, his other hand meeting your back as he wraps an arm around you. You smile against his chest, returning the hug with an arm around his middle.

_ “I’ve missed you dearly,” _he says in soft Tenebraen.

You only understand because you’d planned to tell him exactly that and know the phrase by heart now. You hold yourself closer, smiling perhaps too hard at the admittance that he must think you don’t understand.

“How was Tenebrae?” The question nearly gets lost in his vest, your voice muffled by it.

“A shadow of itself,” he says, letting go. “Although it hasn’t held any of its former glory in decades.”

You step back and consider his words. Glorious or not, you wish you could have the option to return home if only for a visit. “So it was worth the days of detouring?”

As if he’s still catching up, he nods slowly. If he isn’t expecting questions about his trip, especially concerning his experience in his homeland, then he’s a fool. Regardless, his hesitation seems to linger, and you hold up a finger, giving him time to gather himself.

“I have something for you.”

He takes a seat in your armchair while you pull open the drawer of your bedside table. You present the small can with a flourish, holding it out in a palm while your other hand arches upward above it.

Ravus raises an eyebrow.

“It’s car wax,” you admit with a sheepish smile. “For your arm.”

Now both of his eyebrows are arched over his mismatched eyes.

You refuse to deflate, dropping your exaggerated stance to step toward him. “It says on the label that it eliminates friction from the wind, and I thought of you.”

“Is that so?”

You can’t get a read on his tone and press forward anyway with a nod. “Yeah, I thought it could be useful. Swifter punches with your magitek arm or something.”

He tilts his head, resting elbows on his knees as he leans forward. “Swifter… punches?”

“Yes!” You try not to laugh at his apparent incredulity. “Just rub some on, and I bet you’ll be knocking out daemons left and right.” You demonstrate by sending a fist through the air in a few mock jabs.

He stares at you.

Arm falling to your side, you blush. You know you’re being silly. It had seemed like a good idea at the time of purchase, but now you realize how dumb it is. You’d gotten a touch carried away while missing him. After turning Overbite down, he’d visited you less—as expected, the poor man—and you’d had time to think about how you could make Ravus’ life easier since that’s, essentially, what he’s been doing for you.

You hold the can between your hands, your face burning at his steady gaze. “So. Tell me about Tenebrae.”

There’s a pause. Then he’s leaning back, his eyes falling down to the wax in your hands. His look is wary, contradicted by the outstretch of his arm that follows. “Tenebrae as it is now or had once been?”

You hand him the little tin, pleased when he puts into a pocket of his vest. A couple of steps back has you sitting on the edge of your bed. You want to sit closer, but short of sitting in his lap, you don’t have much choice.

“Either,” you say, sitting back to bring you legs up and cross them. “Both. I want to know everything.”

Ravus runs a hand through his hair, then nods. "Alright." He seems confused, either by the wax, or by your interest, or both. Probably both.

You smile, ready to take whatever you can get out of this man of few words.

—

One day off from slumming the bars in downtown Lestallum becomes two, then a week, until you’re living solely on the money Ravus had given you all those months ago.

It’s not something you’ve actively refrained from, work. You just hadn’t… felt like it after Ravus' return, staying in and practicing Tenebraen between arguments with your housemates and painting your nails with the same lacquer you've had for years, wishing it were something deeper. By the end of the day, you’d realized you didn’t _ have _to go home with a sore body every single night.

Or any night.

You’d told yourself you’d return to work _ tomorrow, _but tomorrow hasn’t quite come yet. It’s so much easier to just… not. Your ruminations on this are disturbed by a knock at the front door. Before any of your housemates could rush to answer it—as if—you cross the common space to open the door yourself. Hope has you smiling. Maybe it'll be Ravus, you think. You'd take Overbite, too, but with much less excitement. You haven't seen a friendly face in almost two weeks.

It's Hamlet, your regular. How... kind of him to come out of his way to visit. You stare at him in surprise, hands gripping tightly on both the handle and door-jamb.

_ “I needed to see you,” _ he says by way of greeting, crossing and uncrossing his arms. He appears unsettled, but it’s nothing you haven’t seen in him before. _ “Where’ve you been?” _

You shrug. _ “Around.” _

_ “That guy,” _ he says while looking over your shoulder. _ “With the glasses. Is he your… y’know?” _

Your what? You shake your head with no understanding but to convey that Overbite isn’t your _ anything. _ Your friend, maybe, but you don’t think that’s what this guy is getting at. _ “Why are you asking that?” _

He visibly relaxes. His smile is wide, and it makes you feel less on edge. You lean in the doorway now, as if you’re talking to a neighbor rather than avoiding conflict with a client who makes you uncomfortable.

_ “I’ve missed you, that’s all.” _ He reaches up to touch the ribbon tied at your neck. _ “Can I borrow you tonight?” _

At this, you’re ready to turn him away. But, you remind yourself, you haven’t completely quit your job, have you? Being your own boss, you’ve held off because of— Well— Lack of interest doesn’t seem to be what’s stopping you.

You’ve done it to survive for so long, the time off has been much needed. It’s thanks to Ravus that you’ve been able to recover from the constant work and give your body a moment of rest. You can’t remain idle forever, though, as nice as it’s been.

The sudden wild hair to quit your line of work will pass, and you’ll be left with one less source of income once you return if you’re rude now. He’s no cash chocobo, but your regular client is your only guarantee. He’s valuable, and he knows it. The itch to make sure he’s happy remains, even when you find him less bearable every time you see him.

So you paste on a smile. _ “Of course. Want to come in?” _

He shakes his head, his eyes alight at your response. _ “Nah, I have a place in mind.” _

—

Breathing is an immense feat. The aches throughout your body are worse than you’ve ever experienced. Your throat—

You sit in the tub, a thick rag serving as a stop to hold the lukewarm water in. Baths take too long and are against the rules. Apparently, with the way you’d arrived in a mess of chaos and tears, the rule is meant to be broken just this once.

Your housemate, just returned from her shift at the power plant, had ushered you into the bathroom. The Pagla salts Ravus had recently given you both soothe and burn. Soothe the muscles, burn the cuts. The apex between your legs is an unbearable point of pain, so you lay against the edge of the tub, sobbing while your housemate adds heated water from the kitchen to the tub every few minutes.

She wants to know what happened, but you can’t form words. The blood browning the water has her demanding without relent, the usual judgement being washed out by concern. She knows what happened. She just wants you to say it, and you refuse.

You force out a breath, gasping for more air. Her hand brushes your side as she treads it through the water in an attempt to spread the warm water throughout the tub. You whimper at the contact, and she stops, coming to a stand.

_ “You have to quit. You can’t do this anymore.” _

Resting your forehead against the cold tile of the wall, you try to retort but make an awful sound instead. It shudders out of you, and you’re crying again.

You don’t even remember how you got home.

—

“What has been done to you?”

You open your mouth, and the cut at your bottom lip pulls painfully.

Ravus’ expression is difficult to read beyond _ furious. _“You’ll tell me. Right now.”

He’s in your bedroom, had come in moments before, totally calm. Now he’s snarling, and you can’t seem to take a deep breath. Your heart races, your chest achingly tight.

“I was robbed. It happens.”

Sitting on your bed, a robe wrapped around yourself tightly, you watch him begin to pace. The steps are slow and measured. He stops after three rounds, looking at you.

“Do you know who’s responsible?” His metal hand makes an odd grinding sound as he clenches it. “What did they take?”

You shake your head, no words coming. It has to stay inside you. It needs to rot and die there so it can’t hurt anyone. You close your eyes, moisture building and falling down your cheeks. Swallowing is almost as difficult as breathing, but you force it down and wipe your face with a shaky hand.

A larger metallic one takes it, gently drawing it from your face. The bed dips slightly, Ravus resting a knee on the edge as he leans down. His expression has gone unreadable, eyes searching your face.

He lowers your hand in his own, resting it against your wadded blankets. “May I touch you?”

You blink away more tears, nodding but not entirely understanding the request. He lifts his free hand, brushing away the fresh tears with a thumb. Your eyes close, your breathing slowly evening out. When he uses a finger at your chin to tilt your head back, you crack your eyes open, peeking at him. His own eyes are sharp, examining the long, red mark left behind on your neck from—

The client had used the ribbon to—

Squeezing your eyes shut, you flinch.

Ravus’ touch leaves you at once, the bed shifting at the loss of his weight. He’s scowling again when you open your eyes a few moments later. His jaw is tight, and he looks at you with controlled anger. “Tell me who.”

You shake your head again. Telling Ravus who’d done it would change nothing.

His lip curls with another snarl, his eyebrows pinching. “I demand you tell me. This requires immediate retribution.”

You shake your head harder. It’s no use. Tell him for what? What could he possibly do— hurt him in return? Even Ravus couldn’t have that sort of gall. You feel you’d be better off telling him it wasn’t the first time it’s happened. It doesn’t matter. You’ve survived for this long, and you’ll keep going.

For a few seconds, Ravus stares. He appears stuck, his anger boiling over into a sharp exhale. “I _ will _find out.” He turns around, walking to the door.

“Wait, please.” Your voice cracks, heavy in your throat.

He stops and turns to face you.

“Please don’t,” you say before he can grind out another zealous declaration, reaching out a hand. It aches, as everything does. “Don’t go. I don’t want to be alone.”

All traces of anger slowly disappear from his face. Lips parting, his eyes widen, moving between your face and your hand reaching for him. You must look _ absolutely _pathetic. Because he listens. He sits on the edge of the bed while you let the grief wash over you, and though he’s not the one at fault, he apologizes.

His voice is soothing, as gentle as his touch as he brushes down your hair. You fall asleep against him, waking later to find yourself alone. The bed is still warm where he’d sat, and you stare at the spot blankly while your hand seeks out as much of the warmth he’d left behind as it can.

—

The market sings in the long night. There are fewer and fewer things to buy and peddle, but people migrate to the plaza anyway. Humanity circles itself, refuses to be alone. You’re no different. Sure, you _could_ shop alone, as you always have. But you no longer need to. Like so many other things he's changed in your life, Ravus has made sure of that.

“Oh, what about this one?” you ask on your way toward a hat.

Behind you, Ravus audibly sighs, and though you’re growing used to the strange feeling that has been gripping at your heart, you’re slightly distressed at how much that one sound out of him affects you.

“I do not wear hats.”

You lift it up and turn to him with a little smile. “Not even one that’ll make you look like a chocobo wrangler?”

He rolls his eyes, then looks away, his attention catching on something nearby. You put down the hat and follow curiously.

“No,” you say before he can. “No way.”

He looks down at you with an arched brow and a soft blush. Which makes you blush, and it’s like so many of your recent moments together.

You force a frown and point at the neatly folded undergarments. “They’re hideous.”

“When the objective is comfort above all else, I see no reason for your distaste.”

Narrow eyes examining the underwear, you find the plain white so boring, you’re almost falling asleep just looking at them.

“They need to be sexy, Ravus,” you reason, crossing your arms. “What will my clients think?”

Surprisingly, he scowls. Disapproval, you’d understand. That’s the biggest reaction out of anyone in your life knowing what you used to do for a living. This is different, though. It’s not quite disgust or disappointment. It’s some other unidentifiable emotion that only Ravus seems to be capable of expressing.

Keeping your joblessness a secret from him is important. You don’t want him to worry about your lack of income or, even worse, begin sending you lumps of cash again. You still have savings you’re working through, and… prospects. Less entriguing ones than having sex for a living had been, but you can’t bring yourself to want to be touched anymore.

Not by anyone other than one particular person, at least. Which is something you are _ never _going to approach. Ever.

Ravus turns from the undergarments, walking away with you a step behind. “There is allure in practicality and simplicity.”

His tone is dismissive, stamping out any response you may have. You stay behind him to keep your blush hidden and let your mind wander at that bit of information. Because, despite how much you tell yourself you won’t play in that headspace, you can’t help but wonder.

Is that what _ he _finds alluring?

—

“Sure it’ll fit, but do you want to be the one to carry it up the stairs to my apartment?” You slap a hand on the bookshelf.

Ravus thinks it’s something you need because your “organizational skills are severely lacking.” Remembering the neatly shelved books that you’d seen in his caravan, you suppose he _ would _think your way of stacking books near your bed to be impractical.

“Why didn’t you ever tell me you have a place that’s all your own?” The question leaves you before it’s even a full thought, directly from your mind palace and out of your mouth, not fully formed. Or so that’s how it feels.

Ravus’ brow pinches. It’s worse than his earlier look, and you really want to backpedal. But what’s the use? Hardly anyone has their own home anymore. If it were you, you would brag about it all the time.

“I wish you’d invite me over. It’d be better than dealing with my housemates anytime we see one another.”

His expression morphs into confusion, and it’s the most expressive you’ve ever seen him. It compels you to reassure him, not giving him a chance to speak.

“I know it’s small, but I promise I don’t take up much room.” You hold your arms out as if to prove it. “Besides, Meldacio must get lonely sometimes.”

Everything you say seems to fall on deaf ears. As you wonder if you really should backtrack after all, Ravus finally relaxes. His confusion melts away into understanding.

“You would visit me?”

Sending him an incredulous look, you drop your arms to your sides. “Yeah? Ravus, you visit me every week you aren’t off doing gods know what. Can’t I do the same?”

He gives you a serious look, the Ravus Standard™ you’re learning, but the soft blush on his face grows a deeper shade. It’s obvious on his pale skin, and you have to look away to fight the rise of warmth on your own cheeks.

“I’m sorry,” you say. “I’m not trying to impose— I’m an idiot. I shouldn’t assume—”

You cover your face with your hands and groan. Conversations aren’t meant to be this uncomfortable. With his recent insistence to escort you around Lestallum should your attacker make a reappearance, coupled with the surprising amount of compassion he sometimes displays, you aren't sure exactly when things had gotten this way between you, but it’s miserable. Hands pry at yours, pulling them down until you’re meeting Ravus’ eyes. His gaze is steady, his mouth a straight line.

“Don’t speak nonsense. Tu est parfait.”

The Tenebraen makes you want to scream. You still don’t understand most of what he says, and you’re beginning to wonder if there is some kind of formal manner he’s applying to it, just as he does with Accordan. You do recognize one word, though. You doubt a parfait could be found anywhere in Lestallum, if not all of Eos, in this darkness. It’s primarily meat, fish, and Leiden potatoes anymore.

You take the obvious change in subject for what it is, pulling your hands out of his. “Good idea. I’m hungry.”

—

Sneezing into the crook of your elbow, you sniff hard at the dust in the air. Then you pull out the third stack of books from under your bed. Ravus seems over the initial surprise at just how many you have hidden and stored around your room. It doesn’t stop his analytical gaze from skimming every single bookend. A few of them are in Lucian, and you’ve never read them. You likely never will, which doesn’t bother you as much as it should as someone isolated in Lucis.

He’s being surprisingly diligent in helping you make use of the new shelf. It’s a worn solid wood and doesn’t match the rest of your cheap furniture. You’d never have gotten it if not for his insistence. And very strong arms. He’d carried it inside by himself after hauling it all the way from the market, gaining unwanted praises from every housemate of yours that happened to be home at the time.

You watch him carefully slot books onto the shelves, finding the sight so out of place. Too mundane for a man like him. He pauses to consider a specific book. It isn’t until he’s cracking it open that you realize it’s your journal. You bite your lip and look away to dig the rest of your books out from underneath your bed. Then you’ll move on to the closet. Embarrassment creeps up, and when you glance at him again, he’s still flipping through the pages, his sharp eyes scanning one page before focusing on the next.

“Your penmanship is impressive,” he says suddenly, as if he knows you’re staring. “For a common thief I met in the market, I’d thought it unlikely you could read, let alone write.”

Balking, you lean toward him and try to snatch the book from his hand. He holds it out of reach, looking at you with the hint of a smile.

“Stop reading my personal accounts.” You didn’t mind until he’d sassed you. What a betrayal, to be made fun of while you’re sharing so much of yourself. Your face warms further, matched only by the feelings that constrict your chest.

He turns the journal, open end facing you, and holds the pages apart with his long fingers. His free hand grabs yours and holds it at bay. “What is this meant to depict?”

You shift your narrow eyes from his face to the sketches on the pages. Blinking in surprise—now, _ this _is what you call embarrassing—you jerk forward to reach for it again with your other hand. It barely brushes the edge, Ravus’ arms much longer than your own. He holds it further away, amusement budding on his usually stern face. It makes him look younger, adds a glint to his eyes that you can only make out from how close you are.

It takes you a moment to realize you’re leaning into him, your free hand falling to rest against his thigh for support. It’s solid. He’s solid, and you’re so close, you feel the comfort of his body heat. Your mind stalls, leaving you staring up at him with slowly parting lips. Eyes falling to his throat as he visibly swallows, you pull back.

He lets go of your hand as you sit back, and though the metal of his hand had been cold, your skin burns from the contact. You rub your hands together in your lap, looking down at them for a moment. You don’t think your skin should tingle like this. And your chest— the twisting, pleasant sensations running through it now are _ definitely _not normal.

In your periphery, you see the journal go to his own lap. Looking up, you nod at it and finally admit, “They’re drawings. Of… my dream headscarf.”

You’ve never claimed to be an artist, and it’s not the drawings themselves you’re embarrassed over but the content. The blush on your face is verging on painful. When he reopens the journal, you glance down at the messy lines on the pages. The designs are over-embellished. In your defense, you’d drawn them in your late teens. You may only be four years removed from that, but…

“I’m sensing significance in this,” Ravus says, drawing you out of your thoughts. “Though, I admit I’m unfamiliar.”

You trace the outline of a design with your eyes. “What you wore was important back home.” You point at the drawing, grazing it with the nail of your index finger. “Headscarves meant someone was promising to share their life with you. You’d wear it to tell others that you’ve chosen someone.”

He hums quietly, an acknowledgement of what you’d explained.

Drawing your hand back, you huff a little laugh. “I wanted a scarf with something like a dragon or a pegasus when I sketched this. It’s kind of ridiculous to look at now.”

“A pegasus is a noble creature.” He sounds almost amused when he says it, but the momentary inflection is gone when he continues. “What would you wish for now?”

Not expecting this, you look up to meet his eyes. You hadn’t thought about this in years, so the answer comes slowly. “Just… blue. Like the sky had been before everything.”

The warmth on your face softens, but your heart picks up in its pace. His eyes are unflinching on yours, his head tilted to look down at you.

“This serves to remind me,” he says, his eyes shifting downward suddenly to his hand as it slips into an inner pocket of his vest. “There is something I’d like for you to have. An item I recovered from Tenebrae.”

Not expecting a souvenir from him, especially this long after his return, you smile at the gesture before he’s even showing you what it is. Then, he’s holding a small, jeweled comb out to you with an uncertain look on his face. Your smile weakens, both at his expression and the delicate thing he’s offering. You reach for it, then retract your hand. His uncertainty is making _ you _unsure.

“Is this really for me?”

His eyes leave yours, and a small flush blooms along his cheeks, down his hard jaw. “Should you not wish to accept it, that is perfectly—”

You quickly shake your head, placing a hand over the comb. “No, I just— It’s too pretty, you know?” Taking it from his palm, you hold it between both hands carefully. It looks ancient, even older than your mom’s brooch, which you know to be at least five generations old. “I don’t deserve something this beautiful.”

Ravus sighs. “I don’t understand why you continue to say such things about yourself.” He lifts a hand to your chin, making you look up at him. “Tu mertes le monde.”

You have no idea what he’s said. Your Tenebraen lessons haven’t gotten you anywhere, apparently. He doesn’t try to explain or translate, taking the comb from your hands. Gentle fingers brush your hair over an ear, and he’s fitting the comb into place. You blush at the way his eyes examine you. The barest touch of a smile lifts the corners of his lips.

“It’s a diadem. My mother owned many.” His hands are slow in leaving you. “This is the only one I was able to reclaim. I’ve no need for such a thing.”

Your chest pulls tight and warm. The sensation is still very, _ very _odd, and you combat it with a soft laugh. “With all that hair? It would look nice on you.”

He shakes his head, his face becoming a soft sort of serious as he brings his hand to your face again. His palm is cool against your warm cheek, and it’s startling how flushed you both are.

“You wear it exceptionally,” he says, making it so much worse.

You pull his hand away, trying to think fast. He’s giving you something so important, so _ intense. _It’s something that used to be his mother’s and— Oh!

You scramble up from the floor and go to your dresser, taking your mother’s brooch from its place. Like he had with the comb, you hold it out to him. This would make it even. If he trusts you with something so precious, you’ll trust him, too. He doesn’t take it at first, so you grab his hand and press the brooch into his palm.

“You don’t have to wear it,” you say, squeezing his hand once he’s accepted the brooch. “It’s not as fancy as what you’re giving me, but you did steal it once so I know you secretly vie for it.”

He looks from you to the brooch, which suddenly looks tiny when moved to his magitek hand. “Thank you.”

That unusual feeling pulling at your chest, drawing everything uncomfortably tight, grows stronger. Just when you think you’re getting used to the feeling, it keeps getting _ worse. _You tentatively touch the—what had he called it?—the diadem and brush off the heavy weight in your chest with a soft sigh.

He carefully places the brooch into the same place he’d had the comb tucked away moments before, then closes the journal and slots it onto the shelf. You retake your place between him and your bed, throwing the bedding up to reach for the rest of the books.

The remainder of his visit passes uneventfully until, as he’s leaving, he tells you he’d love for you to stay with him in Meldacio. He’d _ love _ for you to _ stay _with him. You know the phrasing is insignificant, but rationality doesn’t fit in with the sweet feelings his presence creates in you.

So you nod, perhaps more emphatically than you intend, and touch his arm in a lean up to— You can’t even reach his chin, and you aren’t going to— not on his _ neck— _Dropping back on the flats of your feet, you smile sheepishly and let go of his arm.

“Um.” You swallow, wishing you could take back the last ten seconds. “Safe travels.”

He sends a look of mild confusion down at you, then nods curtly before turning and walking away.

Once the door is closed, you cover your face with your hands. You will never act on these abnormal feelings. Never, _ ever. _That was such a strange thing for you to do, and you’re glad you caught yourself in time. Even if the truth rests in the sheer height of the man hindering—ultimately saving you from—your intentions.

_ “Your commander is strong.” _

You drop your hands and face your housemate. She looks impressed, far removed from the pity or the judgement you’re used to. You relax a little and laugh. _ “I know.” _

_ “You like him.” _

Your smile wanes. _ “I know.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation  
_Tu est parfait._ \- You are perfect.  
_Tu mertes le monde._ \- You deserve the world.
> 
> _  
_Thank you for reading! <3_  
_


	5. Simultaneous Sinking

Ravus keeps stopping you from touching his sword. It looks fancy, practically hidden away in a closet in his caravan. His hand grabs yours before you can get close to the hilt.

“You hunt with this?” you ask, excited at his skin touching yours.

“No.” He shuts the closet door before drawing you away, toward the entrance. You’d only just arrived an hour before, utilizing your time well by poking around in his stuff.

It’s all very underwhelming and utilitarian. He only sleeps with plain bedsheets, which makes you wonder how he keeps warm at night. This train of thought sours you; it’s likely that Ravus occasionally shares the space with others. Antisocial or not, he’s no less human than the rest of the hunters you’ve met. At least, you think so. The magitek arm doesn’t build a strong case, but the warmth of his hand around yours…

He leads you out of the caravan and into the main part of camp. People roam everywhere, most hanging around the large bonfire that seems to always be lit. A smell, thick and savory, hangs in the air. Ravus seems to be taking you to its source. Someone’s making a stew. They wave at your approach and hand Ravus a bowl of it that he passes to you.

_ “Thank you,” _you offer in Lucian.

But Ravus is already ushering you away. His touch on your shoulder is light, hand guiding you to a seat. You sit down and stare up at him with the bowl held carefully between both hands.

“Aren’t you eating?”

He sits next to you, a hand carding through his long hair to get it out of his face. “I’ve already eaten.”

With a slow nod, you tuck in, honestly surprised at having a warm meal in this place that wasn’t made in his personal caravan. Part of you is on edge, even in his presence, because this is the first time you've left Lestallum since you'd been assaulted. You don't know where _ he _ could be, and there's a small itch in the back of your mind reminding you to stay alert.

_ “Ravus, always out for a pound of flesh, and you come back with an entire woman.” _

The Nif doesn’t catch your attention at first, but hearing his name as a woman appears from the nearby crowd has you pausing in your meal. It’s the same woman he’d been talking to the last time you were here. She’s wearing some kind of intimidating helmet that she takes off while Ravus lightly scoffs. Your chewing slows to a stop when she looks at you, helmet at her hip.

_ “Oh, it’s the island girl.” _She puts her helmet down and takes a seat near you. “Prince Charming treating you alright?”

The question coming out in Accordan is a little jarring. Her accent is rough, too much Nif about the way her tongue lilts. Instead of showing how unnerved you are, you swallow your bite of food and shrug. You’re not sure what could be so princely or charming about Ravus for him to deserve that name. Maybe it’s meant to be ironic.

“He won’t let me touch his sword.”

She arches her eyebrows. “Oh? No surprise there.”

You stir your spoon in your bowl with a nod. “He had it out when I got here, so I thought he was showing it off. But he wouldn’t even let me hold it.”

The woman’s face grew amused further, encouraging your lamentations.

“It’s impressive, and I think I could handle it if I use both hands.” You’re beginning to genuinely plea to check out his sword. Some hunters let you see and touch their weapons, but none had been as impressive as that.

You look from the woman to Ravus, finding him with crossed arms and a sharp frown. They’re not aimed at you but the woman, rather. She begins to laugh, the sound joining the air in bright peals.

You understand that she’s likely mocking you. She hasn’t even given you her name. Digging into the stew, you quit talking. Which means no one is talking. Because Ravus could probably go forever without uttering a word.

The next time the woman speaks, it’s to Ravus in Lucian. You can’t follow the conversation at all. You don’t even try. You stare into your empty bowl, suddenly wondering why you’d wanted to visit Ravus so badly. You are such an inconsequential part of his life, unaware of the rest because he keeps it that way. You don’t know these other people, and you hardly know him.

“Aranea,” he bites out, breaking you from your thoughts. It sounds like a warning.

A hand comes down on your forearm, gloved and heavy. It’s the woman, leaning toward you while she says something to Ravus. She’s amused, and while used to not understanding what people are saying (and feeling that sense of discomfort that comes along with it), you are leaning away from her with a look to Ravus that you hope reads _ save me. _

Standing up, he says something else incomprehensible but cutting. He takes your bowl, grabbing one of your hands to pull you up from the chair. The metal of his hand is cold, but you hold tight, shifting away from the woman’s grasp. She only laughs more in response, the sound growing distant as Ravus leads you through the camp.

“Who was that?” you ask, trying to keep up with the speed of his long legs.

“An old friend,” he says over his shoulder. “She was a commodore.”

It’s vague, and you take it for what it is. They’re cleary close because of their time in the imperial army, and Ravus doesn’t seem to want you around her.

“Where are we going?”

He hands off your bowl to the same person who’d first given it to him. “I am in need of a drink. Are you one to imbibe?”

You aren’t typically the type. Losing control of oneself is the last thing someone needs in your line of work. But that isn’t your job anymore, is it? You’re here for personal matters. The thought strikes you into nodding.

—

Deeper into the camp, under the rocky roof that arches over everything, you sit with Ravus and a few hunters whose names you’ve already forgotten. You’re having beer, the taste of which is weak and tangy. Whatever Ravus is drinking is strong; you can smell it from where you sit next to him. Every time he speaks, though rare, it hits you with a soft, pungent wave.

_ “Did you hear about Helmett?” _

A little drunk, you’re slow to pick up on the conversation between the other hunters. The name— you remember _ that’s _what it is. Your regular. Helmett. The man who’d— You grow tense, remembering that he could be nearby.

_ “They found his body,” _the hunter continues, lowering her voice.

The other hunter leans forward with a gasp. _ “A body? Usually it’s only ever the tags left behind.” _

_ “Right, but it didn’t look like he was mauled. And he never got sick.” _

_ “So it wasn’t a daemon at all?” _

_ “That’s what people keep saying." _

You look between them as they speak, the meaning behind the words slowly sinking in. The tension leaves you, but the knowledge of his fate does nothing to alleviate the painful memory of your last encounter.

The two hunters startle you when they look your way next.

_ "Ravus, didn't he have beef with you?" _

_ "Yeah, you didn't off him, right?" _

They both laugh as if the idea is ridiculous, but you—

You cringe around a pull of your beer and look at Ravus at your side. He appears uninterested in the conversation, his free hand lifting to touch your knee in a gentle squeeze. It’s a forward gesture, however brief, and you think it’s meant to comfort. He gives you side eye as his hand leaves you, his expression as serious as ever.

He wouldn't... He couldn't, right? The thought is insane. It draws a light, drunken laugh out of you. Definitely crazy.

You smile up at him, much more blatant about your staring than he's being. Tuning out the noise of the others, you relax further against him. There are grassy patches on the ground, sparse but surprising. You sip the last of your second drink and put the bottle down to take off your shoes. The grass is cold against your feet, wet between your toes. You love it, the light feeling in your head a nice buzz.

Ravus touches your knee again, and the slow slide of your feet over the grass pauses. You look up at him, frowning because he’s becoming such a soft shape in your vision. Like a lineless piece of art, one ashen shade blending into another to make up those narrow lips, pointed nose, and mismatched eyes.

“You’re going to catch a cold.”

A small laugh bubbles out of you, and you take hold of his hand in both of yours, lifting it from your knee. “Not with you here.”

He blinks, the pale tones of him tinting pink. You’re so close to his face, your eyes follow the thin line between his parted lips, the peek of his white teeth an oddly enticing sight. His breath is unpleasant—liquor smells so _ awful, _you think—but you want to know how he’d taste.

You close your eyes and inhale through your nose. Letting go of his hand, you lean back and curl your toes in the grass. It’s amazing that it’s still growing here. You sink into the feeling, dispelling your thoughts on the man next to you.

“Here,” Ravus says, bidding you to open your eyes. He’s standing, holding a hand down for you to take. “You need rest.”

You won’t argue. The world is foggy, and you’re growing sleepy. Getting up with his help, you brush yourself off and pick up your shoes. With a bow to the other hunters, you follow after Ravus and ignore the ensuing laughter and comments in both Nif and Lucian. You know what they think, and if you had it your way, they wouldn’t be far off the mark.

Ravus opens the door to the caravan for you, and you tumble in, leaving your shoes by the little table on your walk to the back. He only has the one bed, and you’re making a massive assumption. He doesn’t stop you from throwing yourself down on the firm mattress. A heavy, contented breath leaves you, the sheets tangling a little when you roll over to look up at him.

“I know what the commodore was laughing about earlier.” You smile, feeling warmth come to your face. “She thought I was talking about your…” You giggle and cover your face with your hands. You may be a little drunk, but you shouldn’t be making it so obvious where your thoughts are going while laying on his bed. “It’s easier to let people think I don’t understand.”

“Why is that?”

You peek through your fingers to see him leaning in the open doorway. He’s too tall for the caravan, and his head rests at a slight tilt. You want him to lay with you but don’t know how to ask. He’s not a client. Could never be.

“It’s safer that way.” The words coming out aren’t things you want anyone knowing. You don’t understand why you’re saying them at all, especially here and now. “We’re all stuck in this darkness, and it might never end.”

“It will someday.”

“You know for sure?” You arch a brow at his casual optimism. Surprising. “I feel like I’m falling through a pit in slow motion. Only there’s no bottom.”

He’s quiet, and you stare at one another. Dropping your hands, you sit up and wait for him to speak when you’re certain he won’t. Proving you right and surprising you in one move, he steps toward the bed and takes a seat on the end of it.

You watch the way the muscles in his broad shoulders shift as he unlaces and removes his boots. Your fascination intensifies when he begins to take off the embellishments from his magitek arm. Never had you guessed there was a much simpler prosthetic at the base. The shield-like pieces fall to the floor, silenced by the carpet.

You lay down on one side when he lays back. The mattress vacillates slightly under his added weight. There isn’t enough room for you both to not be touching. Your back is flush against the wall, but the slight bend of your knees still meets his thigh. You wonder if you should turn around, face away from him, but don’t move for fear of touching _ more _of him.

“I have a sister,” he suddenly says, resting an arm underneath his head. “Had a sister. Your determination and foolishness bear a remarkable resemblance to hers.”

Eyes tracing the outline of his profile, you don’t know how to take his statement. Is it a compliment or an insult? Instead of asking, you say, “She sounds wonderful.”

His chest lifts with a deep breath in before he says, “She was. As are you.”

You chew on your lip, your hazy mind toiling over the words. Comparing you to his sister is decidedly the least sexy thing he could have possibly done in this moment. But it touches you that he would share such a secret about himself.

When Ravus closes his eyes, you roll over and face the wall. Your heart is thick and hot in your chest, and for how tired you are, you aren’t sure if you’ll be able to sleep.

—

For the first time in recent memory, you wake in someone’s embrace. Ravus is incredibly warm, his chest hard at your back. He’s breathing into your hair, and his arm around your waist is heavy. You lean into his hold, your hand reaching down blindly for the bedsheets. They’re tangled between your bodies at your feet, and you whine, tugging at the corner of it. He holds you tighter in response, and your loose grip on the sheet breaks as you’re drawn further into the warmth.

Content with this, you return to sleep. Or you would, if a whisper doesn’t startle your eyes open again.

The voice is deep and thick with sleep. Your drowsy mind doesn’t comprehend the Tenebraen. You smile, your chest becoming warm and tight at the sound of it. Like a song, it curls around you as securely as his hold.

The spell isn’t broken until you feel it, soft and wet, his mouth against your neck. A kiss just at the crook where neck meets shoulder. You gasp at the touch, growing still. Your tension makes him draw back, his body leaving yours. Then, horribly, he leaves the bed entirely. You roll onto your back, blinking through the dim light to see Ravus stepping out of the room.

Sleep in your eyes, a chill washing over you at the loss of him, you take a moment to stretch before climbing out of the bed. The hallway is two steps, and you’re suddenly in the dining space, watching Ravus brood. He’s sitting at the table, his face in his hands. You don’t like the look of it, of the arch of his back and the soft fall of his hair over his shoulders.

You step toward him with raised hands, brushing the pale locks back to pry his own from his face. He relents easily, his arms falling to his lap as your fingertips dance along his jawline and force him to meet your eyes.

“Do it again.” Your voice is as gentle as your thumbs brushing his cheeks.

There is a lull, then he shakes his head.

You lean down, confused at his reluctance. The need to have him close again is aching, drawing you downward. “Why not?”

“To do so would compromise things as they are.”

The tip of his nose brushes yours, and it's cruel that he won’t meet your request after waking you in such a way. You grit your teeth, remaining there for a moment longer and hoping for a change of heart. One of his hands pulls yours from his jaw, and you let go, backing away from him.

“Am I too much or not enough?” Your stomach is plummeting now. Right to your feet. “You said I’m like your sister. Is that the issue?”

He brushes his hair back with a rough hand. “There is no issue.”

“No issue? You— you won’t kiss me.” It’s embarrassing to have to say this.

“You’re asking for more than a mere kiss.”

You glare at him, your eyes following him up as he comes to a stand.

“Is that what you think? That I came here to make money off of you?” Crossing your arms, you lift your chin. “I’ve never been with anyone outside of my professional life. So I’m sorry if I’m committing some kind of crime by wanting you.”

Pink is rising to his face; you can’t tell if it’s from embarrassment or irritation. He feels every bit like your reflection right now because you are feeling both in spades.

“You misunderstand.”

“Do I?” You stand your ground even though he towers over you. “If you don’t want me in the same way, just say so—”

“I cannot afford to be with you,” he interrupts, his tone sharp.

Your chest tightens painfully. Not willing to find out what he could mean, you turn from him, walking to the door and picking up your shoes on the way out. “I’d never accept your fucking money anyway.”

The air outside is colder than you expect. You slam the door to the caravan and shove your bare feet into your shoes. Stomping through the group of mobile homes toward the general supply area, you nearly trip over your shoelaces and ignore the looks of the few others milling about.

You want to yell, to release the humiliation. You’d never approached someone for intimacy in a personal way before now, but you’re sure this isn’t how it’s done. A loud clang rings through the camp when you kick an empty barrel, an immediate regret that has you hunching down to touch the toe of your shoe. You groan, wishing you’d never come here.

“Tough time?”

You look up at the words being aimed your way, your eyes narrowing on the commodore. She’s walking toward you, bending into a casual squat when she’s close enough. Her expression is open and curious. You don’t want to deal with whatever she has to say.

“Leave me alone.”

She chuckles, resting an elbow on her knee, her head tilting as her chin meets her hand. “What’s he done?”

“Who are you to ask? His girlfriend?”

She arches a brow. “Don’t make me laugh.”

“You’re already laughing.”

“Because Ravus seems to be his usual slick self.” She tilts her head the other way, her smile waning. “I can kick his ass, if you need.”

You stare at her blankly for a moment, then come to a stand. Fighting the urge to kick dirt at her, you say, “Mind your own business.”

“Hey,” she calls after you as you pass her on your way to the outer part of the headquarters. “I’m sure your job’s not easy, but you have to understand.”

You think you understand perfectly well. She’s the one who has no idea what she’s talking about. Stopping to tell her just that, you look back to find her standing again. She speaks before you can even open your mouth.

“He’s… hard to handle. Trust me, I know.” It's hard to focus on her words because of her impressive cleavage, and when she crosses her arms, it only becomes more apparent. “You’ll be grateful later that he fucked it up now.”

What she thinks he could possibly have done, you would really like to know. It's upsetting, sure, but it’s not the end of the world. You’re just insulted that it seems as if he’d sooner kill a man for hurting you than dare to put his mouth on your own.

“Whatever he’s been paying you to sleep with him,” she says. “It’s not worth it.”

Deciding you’ve heard more than enough, you continue walking toward the edge of camp without a response. The bonfire, as always, is raging in full force, and you want to be as close to it as possible. The heat of it licks your hands, then your face. An orange glow surrounds the entirety of it, and you stand in the heat of it, feeling sweat tickle at your brow after a minute stretches into several. No one else is around, which makes you wonder who’s keeping it alive and with _ what? _

You see Ravus approaching and begin to round the bonfire to get away from him. You make a complete circle before realizing he’s stopped. He’s unamused, the fingers of his fleshy hand tapping on his metal arm. You’re still too upset and embarrassed to face him and keep on the opposite side of the bonfire, taking a seat in one of the creaky plastic chairs.

You test his patience, letting the heat comfort you as you stew on your feelings. Why do there have to be so many?

—

The hunter HQ menu today is fish and more fish. You’re watching with immense fascination as Overbite easily chops and fillets several trevally. You’re not giving it all of your attention because Ravus is near you, silent as ever. You’re amazed by the art of it, though, and you clap when Overbite begins to slide the bits of fish onto skewers to be placed over an open grill. He looks up after placing two down to sear, and you give him a smile. He looks from you to Ravus, then returns his attention to the fish, knife back in hand.

“Pretending as if I’m not here won’t absolve you.”

You bristle at Ravus’ voice, glaring at the fish being added to skewers. You resent the way he says it. The only thing you’re guilty of is wanting someone to care about you for free. You will admit to making things awkward, but you’d been following his lead. That kiss on your neck had felt so… genuine.

“I am sorry,” he adds.

Closing your eyes, you sigh. “Keep your apology.”

“I won’t. You deserve an explanation.”

It isn’t that you disagree. You’re just not up for hearing him out right now. You crane your neck, looking at the fish on the grill. “That looks delicious. Your skill is impressive.”

Overbite looks up, slight surprise on his face. A gloved finger adjusts his glasses as he speaks. “Would be far better a meal were that the world not at its end.”

Ravus sighs, and Overbite returns his focus to the task at hand. Good on him for getting over his feelings for you. If he hadn’t, you don’t think you could handle him on top of Ravus.

You step away from the cooking station, irritation still biting at you. Ravus won’t follow you for much longer; no one is that persistent. You count on that thought as you walk back toward the caravans. Stopping after rounding the first one, you lean back against it and run your hands down your face.

You want to leave after the midday meal. There’s so much you need to consider, and you need to get away from Ravus to think about it with a clear head. You need to find a job and stop fantasizing about things that won't ever happen. Things you told yourself you wouldn't let happen in the first place.

“You insist on ignoring my presence?”

Dropping your hands, you push off from the caravan and look at Ravus. Big surprise, your assumption had been wrong. Because of course. He’s a hunter, used to spending long amounts of time pursuing prey. And right now, he’s after— forgiveness? He doesn’t have a cause to be sorry, which makes this all the more bothersome.

“I want to go home.”

His frown deepens, and he steps closer to you. “I’ll take you now, if that’s what you wish.”

You back away, the heel of your shoe hitting the tire of the caravan. “I mean _ home. _Accordo.”

His brow furrows. “You know that’s not possible.”

“I’m saying you’re not the only one with baggage.” You jut your chin upward, doing your best to not feel cornered against the caravan. He has such a way of looking down at you. It’s as if his nose doesn’t know how to _ not _be upturned. “I didn’t realize that a kiss was out of the question. Your reasons must be great, Ravus.”

He narrows his eyes, and you press back against the caravan as he lifts a hand. It comes to rest next to your head. He leans in slowly and makes your chest tighten; he’s being impossibly unjust right now, bringing himself close just to say, “You cannot imagine.”

“I’m sure I can.” You want to roll your eyes, but you can’t break his gaze. His eyes are slits, and there is a small line at his brow from the intensity of its furrow. You fight the urge smooth it away. “I know what disappointment tastes like. I’m sure your lips would be no different.”

For a moment, his expression eases, the irritated lines disappearing with muted surprise. His eyes trail downward slowly, until they're focused on your mouth, where they linger for several beats.

Then he’s pushing away from the wall, his hand closing into a fist at his side. “I’ll take you home.”

You hesitate before following him. “I want to eat first.”

“We’re going now. Gather your things.”

Glaring at the back of his head, you bite down on the disappointment. You taste it now more than ever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There goes their chance at romance. This thing is halfway finished, so there’s time for them to make up. Probably!
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


	6. Impulsive Inclination

The crate rattles in your arms, heavy and shaky. Whoever had packed it did a poor job, everything is shifting around, and it makes you nervous to handle for too long.

_ “Where do you want it?” _you ask for the third time. It’s punctuated by a grunt, your arms straining under its weight.

The merchant peers around his stall, still undecided.

You sigh and bend to put it down where you stand—your back can handle only so much—and he yelps, a hand reaching out to stop you.

_ “Not there!” _

Grinding your teeth, you rise and heft it in your arms. _ “Then where?” _

Infuriatingly, he brings a hand to his chin, looking around thoughtfully again. He is one of the only non-Lucian merchants in Lestallum, and it’s for that reason you’re even putting up with this. Well, that and—

_ “C’mon, old man. We have other things to do.” _

You look over your shoulder to your newest companion. He has a much larger crate in his arms and a smile on his face. He winks at you when your eyes meet, and you look away, never quite sure how to take these little interactions.

The merchant lifts his arms dramatically. _ “Must you rush? Where the product is displayed affects the chances of a sale!” _

Your companion laughs, walking to a corner of the stall before placing his box down. _ “It’s all potatoes and more potatoes. People are hungry. You’ll be fine.” _ He takes the box from you next and places it on top of the larger one. _ “There we are. Done.” _

He ushers you out of the stall while the merchant grumbles. You rub your hands together, wishing you’d brought your gloves. “Is it okay to just leave?”

Out of the merchant’s earshot, you feel comfortable using Accordan rather than Nif. Lucian continues around you in conversations between other sellers and buyers and people just passing by. Being able to speak your native language will always be satisfying when you’re so surrounded by the foreign.

Your companion drops his arm from your back, shoving his hands into his pockets. “Like I said, he’ll be fine.”

He’s generous with his smiles, and you’re feeling lucky. It had taken a bit of networking to become a supply runner. You don’t even have a license to drive. But for all of the hunters you’d slept with, a surprising many had only good things to say about your… character.

The hunter assigned to be your guard, as no supply runner is ever without one, is lively and carefree and, best of all, from Altissia. This is your second run with him, but it feels like you’ve known him for much longer.

“We should get to the next drop point,” you say, coughing at the appreciative way he looks down at you. It’s unsettling to be wanted after so many months of not being touched. He hasn’t crossed any lines. No lingering touches or suggestive comments. It makes you wonder if it’s all in your head. Just like it had been with Ravus.

“Yep, gotta keep on the grind.” He elbows you a little, as if he’s making a joke.

You rub your arm and laugh, though you don’t understand. You just appreciate his brightness.

The next vendor is a small medical spot for quick fixes that can be mended without a trip to the hospital. While your companion walks back to your truck for their crate, you look at a few of the doc’s meager supplies. It’s a good thing you’re replenishing things for them, though you wonder for how much longer. To what extent could _ any _of you last in this world, truly?

The doctor approaches you with a vest as you ruminate. Unsure of what’s happening, you take it when they shove it into your arms. It’s worn, a soft leather that shines a little in the flickering light from the streetlamps overhead.

_ “That was left here by a hunter this morning,” _ they say, clearly affronted by the thing. _ “Take it back with you to their headquarters.” _

Not feeling the need to explain that you wouldn’t be going back to Meldacio for at least another week, you fold the heavy vest over an arm and nod. It’s unlikely you’ll find the owner. It looks like any other vest worn by the hunters, nondescript beyond its roughness. If you can’t find who it belongs to— free vest.

“That for me?” Your companion looks at it curiously. He puts the crate down, his smile growing.

“No, it’s a lost and found situation.” You say this, but when he reaches to take it, you let him.

He steps out of the booth, leading you through the market with it held up. “It’s… really nice. This is genuine anak leather.”

You lift a hand to take it back. “Which is why we should find the owner.”

He holds it out of reach. “They left it in a stall. They’re not coming back for it.”

It’s hard to argue; people just don’t leave important things behind in this darkness. If left, there’s a reason for it. You shake your head when he slides his arms into it. He’s clearly not broad enough to fill it out.

“Looks good, right?” He stops walking to turn around and hitch his hands proudly at his waist. His grin grows, and you can’t help but smile back.

“Sure,” you say, walking past him with a light laugh. “You look amazing.”

“Oh, _ amazing,_” he mocks as he follows. He thinks your accent is funny. It’s not the first time he’s repeated after you when he’s amused by the way you pronounce something. “I look _ amazing, _huh?”

You send him a sour look, though you know he means well. “We have five more places to supply. Let’s try to get it done before the sun returns.”

—

“What are you doing after this?”

Helping the last merchant with her display, you pause with a small sack of beans in your hands. Your companion looks at you expectantly, his question hanging in the air. The merchant has no idea what you’re saying. She keeps pointing at where she wants what, and it’s some of the clearest communication you’ve gotten from a Lucian in a long time. She’s looking between you both now, her pointed finger curling.

Is your confusion that obvious?

“Going home,” you answer with a shrug and place the sack down next to another on a table that is already spilling out legumes. They’re hard and dry and you busy yourself with scooping them up.

“Can I join you?”

Some of the beans spill from your hands and hit the ground in a quiet patter. The merchant sighs, and you bend to quickly pick them up. “Why would you want to do that?”

He laughs. “Do I really have to spell it out? I thought village girls could read minds as well as palms.”

You put the beans on the table and dust off your hands as you face him. “I resent that.”

Another laugh. “Don’t be upset.”

Hand coming to your hip, you frown at him. You’re not upset, but you’re about to be. He keeps getting closer, invading your personal space as he chuckles. It's the first time he's making his intentions clear, but it's not giving you the thrill you'd hoped to feel in this situation. Whatever response you’re trying to form falls silent on your tongue when you notice someone walking your way rather quickly.

Approaching the stand with a steady gait and displeased expression, Ravus catches your companion’s attention next. The merchant meeps and braces herself against one of the wooden beams when Ravus doesn’t hesitate to step into the booth with the rest of you. Turning to him, your companion takes a step back as Ravus lifts a hand.

“W-wait,” your companion stutters. He takes another step back, but there’s no room left for him to move.

Metal fingers grip the collar of his newly acquired vest. Ravus lifts him slightly from the ground, his lip curling with a deeper frown.

Part of you wants to intervene. Ravus’ sudden appearance is clearly upsetting the merchant, who’s covering her face with her hands now. But there isn’t much you can do. His aggression is so confusing, you’re stalled there watching as he uses his free hand to open the front of the vest your companion is wearing. On the inside, pinned to an inner pocket, is something small and bronze. Ravus removes it, and it disappears into his large fist before you get a good look.

“Keep the vest,” Ravus hisses, letting it go. He looks at you for a moment before turning on his heel and leaving the booth.

Your companion stumbles back, knocking into you. He regains his footing and smooths down the vest with a laugh that’s much less genuine than those from before. “Weird guy.”

You ignore it, pushing past him. “Ravus!”

He doesn’t stop at your call; he doesn’t even slow down. You don’t know what else to expect, following after him through the market. He finally stops to look at you when you catch a grip on his sleeve. His expression eases, his eyes pouring over your face.

You let go of him, hesitant because you don’t want him to walk away. “Where have you been?”

You’ve gone much longer than two months without hearing from him, but you hadn’t gotten any warning this time. You don’t know why he’d ignore you like this.

Well, other than to avoid your unwanted advances.

But you’re hopeful enough to think that shouldn’t affect your friendship. You’re realizing now, as he crosses his arms, how self absorbed that is. Of course he would need distance.

“I’ve been away,” he says simply. In the dim light, standing closer now, you take notice of how rough he looks. His hair is tangled, pulled back from his face uselessly as his fringe is loose and frames his sharp features.

Your attention is drawn away from the dark circles under his eyes when he relaxes his arms to open a hand. The small thing he’d unpinned from what had been his vest— you realize it’s your mother's brooch. Hooking a metal finger in the front pocket of his shirt, he tucks the brooch inside. His eyes remain on yours, which have grown wide with your surprise.

“You still have it.”

He nods once. “Naturally.”

You take in his tired face and stringy hair again, this time as a distraction from the warmth building in your heart. “Are you going back to headquarters?”

“I’m on my way now.”

You chew on your bottom lip, eyes raking over his busted appearance. “Don’t you think you should rest first?”

Ravus’ frown returns but not because of you. Your companion comes to your side, a wary smile on his face.

_ “Look, Nif,” _ he says in the other language, tilting his head toward you. _ “You can have her later. Wait your turn, yeah?” _

You start, shocked at his blatant disrespect. Preparing to tell him off, you’re disrupted by Ravus, who seems to beat you to it. He raises a hand, and you think he’s going to grab your companion’s collar again. Instead, you’re further startled when his hand comes to your nape. Bending in one fluid movement, he presses his mouth to your forehead. It's brief but firm, his lips soft and warm.

You fall still, blinking as he draws away. “What are you—”

“You’re above this,” he says, his hand leaving your neck to come to his side. Your eyes follow it down, catching the way it tenderly touches a dirty spot on his undershirt.

You can feel the kiss on your skin. It burns and distracts from the budding worry in your stomach. Placing a hand over his, you try to get a look at what’s seeping into the dirty grey fabric over his abdomen. “Let me see.”

He takes your hand, quickly pulling it away. “It’s dressed. There is nothing to see.”

You frown up at him. “What happened?”

“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Jerking your hand from his, you create a short bit of distance. “So you’ve gotten hurt like this before?”

“As one does. I _ am _ a hunter.”

Standing there, in the bustle of the market, you look from Ravus to your companion. One of your hands comes up to your forehead as thoughts of injuries and beans and kissing swarm your mind. Ravus’ warmth is still spreading over your skin from that single moment of contact. Fingertips touching just above your brow, you shake your head and take another step back. This isn’t adding up.

Your companion says something that you pay no attention to as you rush past them both, out of the market and into the comfort of your home.

—

The air is smokier in Meldacio than usual. The ever-burning bonfire is larger, too. There’s a connection, but you aren’t there to work out that mystery. You’re here for work; that’s _ it. _ Your companion leads the way through the massive haven, and maybe your eyes wander with each step. Maybe you even get hopeful.

“Looking for Ravus?”

You glare at the commodore, stopping to turn toward her. “Is he here?”

She’s smiling and shaking her head. “Hasn’t been around for over a month, you know that.”

Your glare eases. She’s right. You’ve run into her on every run, and she always guesses—correctly—that you’re looking for a certain person. There’s no point in pretending otherwise once it's thrown in your face. “I saw him in Lestallum last week. He said he was on his way back here.”

“Oh yeah?” This seemed to actually surprise her. “I haven’t seen him. He’s not one to hide, so…”

As she brings her forefinger to her chin as if readying herself for deep thought, you feel your companion push against your arm. He’s smiling once he has your attention, a thumb slung over his shoulder at the large amount of crates you have to help carry to the truck.

“We should get started soon.”

You wave him off, returning your attention to the commodore. Her words are beginning to register, and you suddenly need to know. “Why would Ravus need to hide?”

She arches her eyebrows and drops her hand. “He admitted to leaving a man for dead. Dave made him leave HQ until he figures out what to do with him.”

You’ve heard of Dave. You know he’s the head of everyone here, even though it all seems primarily independent. That they didn’t immediately lock Ravus away speaks volumes of the lawlessness that permeates everything now.

“So he’s hiding because he murdered someone?”

The commodore laughs. “You don’t seem shocked by that, kid. But no, he’s not hiding. He’s probably out in the darkness somewhere. He was due for a long depression anyway.”

“Depression?”

“Too much smiling before. He looked broken.”

Your companion shoves your arm again, and you sigh in your goodbye to the woman. As always, she’s given you a lot to think about. You pull on your gloves and ignore your companion for deep thought. Facts. That’s what you need to get straight to begin understanding things.

Fact one: Ravus let someone die, and you’re positive it was for you. No, not _ for _ you. Because of you. He killed someone because they hurt you. It would scare you if you weren’t so ingrained with the idea of survival. You were made a victim by the man, and he was made a victim by Ravus. It’s that simple.

Fact two: The commodore knows him better than you do. You don’t understand what she said about him, but you can assume it’s all true. Ravus was going to disappear anyway; he looks broken when he smiles too much. You don’t know if you agree with that, but the conversation is over now. You can save the argument for next time.

Fact three: Ravus had kissed you. It was sudden, brief, and by all appearances, platonic. Despite that, your heart races at the memory. You haven’t been able to think about much else all week, and it makes both your head and chest ache unbelievably.

“We should grab a tent for the night.”

You stop walking to avoid running into your companion. “Let’s drive back when we’re done loading.”

“I’m tired. Aren’t you?”

Of course you are, but the only times you’ve spent overnight in Meldacio are both uncomfortable memories you don’t want to think about. “I’ll drive while you sleep.”

Your companion sighs, looking over his shoulder at you. “And pay the fee to have the truck in Lestallum overnight?”

“I’ll park it outside the gate.”

“And risk losing the entire shipment?”

You roll your eyes, although you know he’s right. “Okay, get a tent.”

The rest of the work passes in discussion of which area of the camp to sleep. He thinks a tent closer to the bonfire would set you at ease, and you agree, saying it gives you a false sense of safety.

You nod along with everything he says, already deciding that there’s no way in hell you’re going to sleep in a tent with him.

—

The caravan is locked, but that doesn’t stop you. Using a bent paper clip and a knife, you work the door open. It creaks, and you step inside with an unneeded hesitance. Stale air, muted sounds, and darkness greets you. With the door locked behind you a moment later, your hands fumble for a light switch.

The stove emits a soft green light from its number display. You use it to cross through the tiny kitchen to the bathroom, where the light source is easier to locate. Once the entire caravan is lit in yellowed light, you wander the space curiously. The fridge is empty. His impressive sword is gone. There’s trash left on the little table, wadded bits of paper and an empty Ebony can.

You sit down and push the can aside. Taking your boots off is a comfort. You lament the lack of food while your fingers tear at the laces. You consider keeping them on to make one last trek out of the caravan to see if anyone is cooking tonight. Like Ravus, you haven’t seen Overbite in weeks, though. And you’re not even a hunter, so you’d have to lie to get the one meal each one is allowed to grab, anyway.

For that, you kick the boots aside and resign yourself to going hungry. What is one night to the hundreds you’ve experienced so far?

Stretching out your legs to rest your feet on the seat across the table, you unwad one of the crinkled papers. There’s writing on it, marked through, in a language you barely recognize. You wish you’d thought to bring your Tenebraen-Accordan dictionary. Unfolding the other papers gives you the same result, messy lines of Tenebraen with your name written at the top of each page.

You stack them, even the ripped pages, and fold them together. They’re too thick to fit into the pocket of your coat. You try to stuff them there in your walk to the bedroom. Climbing into his bed, you give up and hold them against your chest. The sheets smell like him. You lay back, hating that your mind is on fire for these small thoughts.

His sheets. His notes. His kiss.

You unfold the papers and try to will the words to make sense. Was this some sort of explanation? _ I kissed your forehead because the thought of kissing your mouth disgusts me. I kissed you because I was injured and the blood loss had addled with my mind. I kissed you— _

It doesn’t matter why. He’d kissed you with no warning or explanation before going back into obscurity. He’s rude and terrible and you don’t miss him one bit.

—

Fingers flipping through the yellowed pages of the Tenebraen-Accordan dictionary, you pace the expanse of your small room. Your lips move silently, the irritation and unwanted excitement coiling your stomach into a knot as you slowly make sense of the unfinished notes from Ravus. You want to be ready for the next time you see him.

_ I promise you. _

That’s what he’d opened each letter with. Every single one.

_ I promise you. _

You pause in your pacing to stare at the words. Promises mean nothing to you. Such a bad start only strengthens your anxiety over it all. On most of the pages, that’s all that’s written. As if he, like you, knows the worthlessness of a promise. As if repeating it had given him more resolve. Because even the longest note begins that way.

_ I promise you, there is an ending to this pit of darkness. _

You pace once again and play the words over and over in your mind. The note may be the longest, but it's still unfinished.

_ I promise you, there is an ending to this pit of darkness. When you reach the bottom, I will meet you there. As neither of us have our own, it’s my hope that we may call it home. _

A knock at the door disturbs you. At first you ignore it, but they knock again impatiently after a long, arduous stretch of five seconds. You slip the paper between the pages of the dictionary and bring it with you to jerk open your door.

_ “What?” _You’re not surprised to see your housemate. Behind her, though, stands someone you didn’t expect to see anytime soon. He doesn’t even have the grace to look sorry. For suddenly kissing you, for disappearing, for writing you confusing letters, for anything. Before your housemate can get a word in, you point at Ravus. “Vous… vous secousse!”

Your housemate raises her hands as if removing herself from any involvement. Ravus remains in the hallway, stepping aside for her to pass. Your insult doesn’t seem to be affecting him, and you falter, hoping you’d pronounced the words correctly.

“You’re learning Tenebraen.” He arches an eyebrow in interest, and you frown at him, not at all impressed that this is his takeaway. At your silence, he tilts his head and asks, “May I come in?”

You stay in the doorway, staring up at him. “Why, so you can kiss me and disappear again?”

Ravus’ expression remains frustratingly serene, though pink begins to dust his pale skin. “That was merely a delayed response to your request.”

You hold the book in a hard grip with both hands. “In what reality is that—” Groaning, you turn away from him and walk to your bed to put the dictionary down. You take a deep breath and face him with your hands on your hips.

He pauses after closing the door, and as frustrating as all of this is, your heart is still pounding in your chest at the revelation of what his notes say. You shouldn’t have put the dictionary down; you need to create distance with more insults. Or utilize it as a blunt weapon. Because he's here now, and you want to still be mad at him.

“I apologize for the length of time I’ve made you wait.”

You balk. “Ravus, you— you made your choice back then.”

“Is that why you’re with that man?”

There’s an edge to his voice now, and you will _ not _be made to explain yourself.

“It’s my job.” You stay succinct, unable to force nonchalance with so many feelings in you. “I took who I could get, and I actually like him a lot.”

Ravus inhales deeply, his brow furrowing. “Is that so? You’ve moved on quite easily. I should've expected no less from such work ethic as yours.”

Faltering, you stare up at him. What is he talking… Ah. You’d never told him about the job change.

“I’d considered this while away.”

“Oh, yeah? You had to consider my questionable job and life choices?”

“Among other things.”

Your hands curl into fists at your sides, but you bite down on the anger that mingles with the confused warmth in your chest. Disappointment blooms there, amidst the inner conflict. “That’s really shitty of you. You’re the last person I ever expected to judge me.”

“Judge you?”

“Isn’t that it? You can’t be with me because I’m used.” You’ve never been ashamed of what you’d chosen to do for a living, and you aren’t going to start now. That doesn’t mean you’re unaware of what people think of you.

“You are greatly mistaken.” His furrowed brow eases, another soft blush gracing his high cheekbones. He runs a hand through his hair and looks away with a growing frown. “I admit I held worry you may find me lacking. My lovers have been few, even less of those whose tenderness I’ve desired beyond a single evening.” His eyes meet yours again when his hand falls to his side.

That… is a lot to digest. Biting your inner cheek, you let your eyes wander around the room. It’s your turn to avoid eye contact, uncertainty overpowering your disappointment. He’s giving you emotional whiplash.

A large hand catches you by the chin, making you look up at him. “I am sorry,” he says plainly. “I offer myself now.”

No matter how many negative emotions swirl in you, warmth blooms, ripe in your chest. “You’re not really selling yourself here. You just said you’re bad in bed.”

He blinks. “I’ve admitted to no such thing. My sexual prowess is—” He clears his throat, and the blush on his face deepens. He looks a little ill from it, actually, letting go of your chin to rub at his neck. It’s such a boyish move, out of place coming from him.

“Are you okay?” You give him a concerned look and lift up onto your toes to touch his cheek, then his forehead. He still looks as rough as he had in the market weeks before, the dark circles under his eyes even more apparent now in the brighter light of your bedroom.

He scowls, as if attempting to rid himself of the apparent discomfort shining through on his heated skin. His hand ensconces yours, drawing it away. “That isn’t an answer.”

“You didn’t ask a question,” you bite back.

He pulls you closer by the hand. Your toes touch his boots, feet stepping onto his. Free hand catching hold of his arm, you steady yourself.

He leans down, his nose skimming yours. His face is so red, and he looks every bit done with this. With everything. “May I?”

He’s so close, and he seems to realize that. When he lifts his head to give you space, you scramble. His hand over yours tightens, and you use that hold to keep him close. Your free hand moves up his arm to his shoulder, drawing him back down.

“Ravus, if you don’t kiss me, I swear—”

He finally closes the distance, cutting you off with the firm press of his lips. He’s unmoving at first, the kiss chaste but lingering. He breaks it only to kiss you again. His hand lets go of yours, finding your waist to pull you flush against him. You rise onto your tiptoes to meet him in earnest, moving your lips to coerce his apart.

The easy tilt of his head deepens the contact. His tongue meets yours, tasting vaguely like copper and smoke. Your nose scrunches, but you hold fast, not wanting to part for anything. He steps forward, and you move with him, shifting back until you feel your bed at the back of your legs.

Your nails dig into his shoulders, pulling at the fabric of his shirt. The last remnants of the irritation from before dissipate, making way for the heat of his body against yours and every thrill it sparks through you.

You kiss harder, pleased when he moans. Feeling it in his chest pressed to yours, you try to pull him down with you onto the bed. He’s too large, unrelenting to your meager strength. You part, heavy breaths between you. Falling back on the bed, you sit on your knees and begin to unbutton your shirt. His large hands cover your own, forcing you to stop.

_ “Slow down,” _he murmurs in Tenebraen, his mouth meeting yours again.

Your hands escape his, rising to cup his face. He repeats himself softly, his lips demanding gentler movements out of yours. It’s almost painfully slow as one of his hands caresses your neck, his calloused palm at your throat forcing you to tilt your head back. His mouth leaves yours to trail soft marks along your jaw. His metal arm is braced, heavy and cold, next to you on the bed. You take hold of it with a hand to keep steady, your eyes falling closed.

His breath heats your skin, his teeth grazing slowly over a sensitive spot below your ear. _ “Allow me to savor you.” _

A familiar heat springs to life in your stomach. It curls downward and deepens at the juncture of your thighs, and you wish he’d get closer. Your hand leaves his arm to touch his chest, your palm feeling the steady heartbeat underneath. He’s burning hot at your touch. When your hand trails downward to his stomach, his abs jerk beneath your fingers. He hisses against your neck, pulling back to leave a sore, wet spot on your throat.

Suddenly alarmed, you look at his shirt, finally noticing the dark brown splotches in the fabric where your hand had been. He stops you from lifting the hem to see, large hands covering your own.

You gaze up at him with a frown. “Is this the same injury?”

He shakes his head, strands of his hair tickling your cheeks as he leans over you. “Don’t bother yourself with it.”

You lower your hands, and the mood drops with them. “How can I not? You’re hurt.”

“It’s a common occurrence.”

Sitting back on the bed, you create a short bit of distance. He's just going to once again point out how he's a hunter. That this is normal and okay, even if it _shouldn't_ be. Which reminds you. “I know you can’t go back to Meldacio.”

Surprise is light and pithy on his face. “On the contrary, I received word of my unanimous pardon earlier today.”

“So why did you come here rather than get yourself patched up properly?”

He looks at the empty space next to you but makes no move to sit. “I wished to see you before facing the others.”

You cross your arms. The entire tone of the room has shifted drastically. You’re growing concerned, not looking for an argument. “Will you sit?”

He nods, and when he turns around to face your armchair, you reach out to grab his hand. It halts him in place.

“Over here,” you plea softly. “Next to me.”

The mattress sinks under his weight. He looks reluctant, eyes flicking between your face and your hand that refuses to let go of his. You’re doing your best to not look at the place where his injury is hidden. His legs are so long, his feet are planted on the floor. It stabilizes him, allowing you to lean against him, careful of his sore spot.

“So.” You put the word out there, and it lingers awkwardly. Asking about the injury likely won’t produce any answers you want to hear. All you can do is let him rest and recover. Your fingers tighten over his. “What made you change your mind?”

“Hm?”

“While you were avoiding me.” The bud of warmth in your chest persists, and you rest your head against his arm to hide your blush. “Was it almost dying or seeing me with someone else that made you decide to kiss me?”

“Although missing you has pressed me to act sooner than planned, I’ve wished to kiss you since returning from Tenebrae.”

You blink and tilt your head back to look up at him. “Huh?”

He doesn’t relent in his stare down at you. “Must I repeat myself?”

“But you—” You shake your head. “Why wait until now?”

“There is much you don’t know.” He breaks eye contact to look at your hand in his. “I had no desire for things to change between us.”

You follow his gaze, wiggling your fingers between his. “What has to change?”

“You can’t act as if this doesn’t change everything.”

Opening your mouth, you hesitate to speak your mind. Does this have something to do with his sister? Or maybe it’s the mysterious responsibility he’s alluded to on occasion. Or— it could be something else entirely. You’re always being reminded of how much you still don’t know about him. There’s little trace left behind of the man, proven by your perusal of his caravan.

“Ravus, listen.” You swallow, your fingers squeezing his. “I’ve missed you, too, and I think about you way more than I should. No amount of kissing will ever change that.”

He gives you the smallest smile, and it doesn't make him look any more broken than he already does. When he lifts a hand to your cheek, you smile at the cool metal meeting your skin. His lean down is languid, your eyes falling closed the moment his lips meet yours. He kisses you until you insist that he rest. He kisses you as if making up for lost time, as if he no longer cares if it changes everything.

—

You jostle in the cab of the truck. The seat is a long, padded bench, and without any sort of strap or belt holding you down, you’re rattling around as much as the empty crates in the back. Stuck between your companion, who’s driving with very little finesse, and Ravus, who's staring forward blankly, you’re going to suffer bruises from slamming into their arms at every turn.

Ravus’ is especially painful, the edges of his magitek limb biting into your shoulder. You brace a foot on the dash, but it doesn’t help as much as you’d like. Your companion’s hand keeps accidentally resting on your knee when he reaches for the gear shift. Ravus’ own hands are fists on his lap that tighten by the minute.

“Kinda cramped in here,” your companion says. This is the second time he’s said this since leaving Lestallum.

Ravus surprises you by responding this time. “You may get out and walk.”

Your companion scoffs. “Like hell. You’re lucky we’re even giving you a ride.”

His hand comes down onto your knee again. Before he can lift it away, Ravus reaches across you to knock it off with a harsh swipe. Your companion hisses, grabbing the gear lever to shift and accelerate faster. You don’t blame him; this is uncomfortable.

Ravus stretches his arm forward, then reaches back, resting it over your shoulder along the back of the seat. As the truck takes a turn just a little too quickly, you slide along the upholstery, the force pressing you against Ravus’ side. He’s warm, and when you brace a hand on his chest and look up, he’s gazing down at you.

Suddenly it’s… much less uncomfortable.

You smile. “Bonjour.”

Almost imperceptibly, he softens. “Bonjour, amour.”

“That rhymes.”

“Yes.”

“It’s cute.”

Your companion groans, and Ravus looks forward with a much more subtle frown. You settle against him, riding out the rest of the bumpy trip under his arm.

It’s going to take time to get past the novelty of being so close to him.

—

“Don’t look so disappointed,” the commodore says with a laugh. She peers around your bedroom with interest. A pack hangs from one of her shoulders, and you pick at it, impatient for what she’s brought.

You’re always hoping to see Ravus when you get a visitor or step foot into Meldacio. But the last couple of times you’ve been to hunter HQ have resulted in wandering around the place with no sign of him and fruitless knocking on his caravan door. It’s nearing three weeks of silence, and you can’t even be mad because he’d given you proper notice this time.

_ I’m going away. If I’m longer than a fortnight, I’ll have Aranea bring you something. _

Very cut-and-dried. Very Ravus.

You take the bag from her, curiosity overpowering everything else. “What’s inside?”

She shrugs and sits in your armchair. “No clue. Didn’t seem like much.”

Placing the bag on your bed, you ignore her and open it with hurried hands. She’s right, though. Much of the pack is empty space. Something hard is wrapped in a soft, silky fabric at the bottom. You pull it out carefully, unwrapping it with much more patience for fear of damaging anything. The item inside is a book, unmarked and plain. You set it aside, too immediately enamored with the fabric. It’s a delicate square in various shades of blue.

In your excitement, you hold it up for the commodore to see in full. “Look.”

She whistles appreciatively, though you know it can’t be sincere.

The sight of it makes your throat tighten. “I wish he was here.”

The commodore huffs a small laugh. “Sorry I'm not broody enough for you.”

The feelings flooding your chest and making you tingle all the way to your toes drown out what she says. Ravus is giving you a headscarf. He knows exactly what this means, and you’re somewhat put off that he’d do it through someone else.

You sit down and run the scarf in between your hands. “Why can’t he be here?”

“That’s Ravus.” She stands up to give your room another long glance. “He’s peculiar. Needs his space for his bouts of angst.”

You frown at this and hold the scarf to your chest. “Where does he go?”

“Beats me.”

“You have some idea.”

She rests a hand on her hip. “It doesn’t matter where he goes. He always comes back, usually with a beard and five hunts to cash in.”

Folding the scarf on your lap, you laugh softly. It’s hard to believe he’d give this to you. Even if he does kiss you at most given opportunity while alone. Does that constitute such a heavy promise this symbolizes? “If we find out he has a secret wife and kids at one of the other safe havens, help me kill him.”

Like you’re hoping, she laughs. “I like you. It’s a shame Ravus never knows what he wants.”

You don’t know what she means by that, and you have no patience for that sort of cryptic nonsense. Standing with the gingerly folded scarf, you pass her to the dresser. The diadem sits where your mother’s brooch used to, and you lift it to put the scarf down underneath.

The commodore comes to your side while you eye the intricate pattern of gems on the piece. You put the diadem down and look up at her when the clicking of her boots stops next to you. Rather than the smirk she’d just had, she stares at the comb with mild surprise.

“It’s mine,” you say, not really sure why you’re feeling possessive all of a sudden. She has to know it’s from Ravus. She’d been with him when he salvaged it from the ruins of his home in Tenebrae. And if Ravus is giving you a headscarf… a small comb wouldn’t imply anything more intimate than what must already be obvious.

She looks from it to you, her words coming out in amused Nif. _ “So that’s what he meant.” _

“Ravus gave it to me months ago,” you say, the defensiveness growing.

Her smirk returns._ “You have no clue, do you?” _

Again, you don’t appreciate her tendency for vague statements. You won’t give her the satisfaction of teasing you, so you won’t ask what she means. Walking back to your bed, you pick up the book and sit down to crack it open. Scrawled in neat lines are words in both Tenebraen and Accordan across the pages.

> _ Herein lies a list of Tenebraen phrases and terms that will benefit you. Some you may know, others you may find trivial. They are all, much like you, immeasurably valuable. _
> 
> _ Reminders for yourself. (A must.) _   
_ Je suis forte. - ‘I am strong.’ _   
_ Seulement, je règne sur moi-même. - ‘Only I reign over myself.’ _   
_ J'aime Ravus. Il est le meilleur. - ‘I like Ravus. He is the best.’ (Too arrogant?) _
> 
> _ When someone disappoints you. (I suggest you use them on your companion as needed.) _   
_ En avoir ras le bol. - ‘I am fed up.’ _   
_ Hors de ma vue. - ‘Get out of my sight.’ _   
_ Vous êtes viré. - ‘You’re fired.’ _

You smile and flip through the pages. From cover to cover, the entire book is full of Ravus’ refined handwriting. Every section is categorized, painstakingly meticulous in its organization. You can’t pronounce most of these words because Tenebraen is sadistic in that way, but the care he put into writing so much down makes you warm further. Now you won't have to secretly swoon over the trashed, unsent notes. This is so much better.

Closing the book with a sigh, you wish more than ever that he didn't have to make himself so distant. There is something there, whatever had driven him to write a small _book_ of translations for you. Someday, you're going to figure it out, and maybe learn to understand him in the process.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation  
_Vous... vous secousse!_ \- You... you jerk!
> 
> Men who fill entire books with their feelings are apparently my type. Yikes. Please forgive/point out translation errors. I don’t know French, like, at all.
> 
> This feels like it's moving too fast, although I know it’s fine. Why is the task of keeping things short and sweet so difficult for me? @_@
> 
> The next chapter is going to be... naughty. All smut, no plot. So feel free to skip it if smut isn't your thing!
> 
> Thanks for reading! <3


	7. Thoughtful Touches

Ravus rests like a corpse. Complete silence, not even the sound of his breath marking the air. It’s rare that you wake before he does, but every time you do, you hold a hand above his nose to feel for breath. That, or you rest your head on his chest to make sure it’s expanding. In the stale air of his caravan, that’s what you do now.

He’s wearing a thin undershirt, and you can feel his body heat radiating through it against your cheek. Your head rises with his chest as he breathes in, and your vague worries over his possible vampiric heritage dissipate.

“Amour.”

You smile sleepily at his quiet greeting. Voice thick, he shifts underneath you. One of his arms comes around your waist and holds you to him. You didn’t mean to wake him up, but now that he’s alert…

You slide a foot up his calf, resting your leg over him, bent at the knee. A hand sliding down his stomach, you hope he doesn’t stop you this time.

Despite just waking, his reflexes are fast. His hand catches you by the wrist, pulling it away from the waistband of his underwear. You sigh through your nose and lift your head to meet his gaze. He’s frowning at you. Typical. You’re beginning to think you’ll never get an eyeful—or mouthful—of what lies beneath his pants.

“Ravus, _ please,_” you say, unable to catch yourself in time to stop the whine. You know he hates that. But you hate being denied, something he does fairly often.

He rolls over, pressing you back against the mattress. His hand holds down your wrist, his knee forcing your legs to part. The pace of your heart quickens, caught off guard by this. His hair frames your face in silver waves; you blink and squirm against the way it tickles you. “Ravus?”

His hold on your wrist tightens, and the sheets fall away as he lifts himself up on the opposite elbow, his hand coming to your cheek. He brushes your mouth with his thumb and pulls at your lower lip. Your breaths come to a halt at his fingers trailing further down, tilting your head back.

His lips are soft on your skin. He presses them along your throat in featherlight touches. You writhe beneath him, still not used to this treatment. He kisses you like he speaks Tenebraen, sweet, sensual, and reserved for when you’re alone. In these moments, you can’t believe you’d ever thought of him as intimidating. His teeth graze your collar, his fingers pulling down the neck of your shirt for more access, but it only bites into your nape the further down he pulls.

You wiggle against him with a whine, and he lifts himself, his hands leaving you. He takes hold of the hem at the bottom of your shirt, pulling it up to reveal your breasts. A gasp leaves you at the cold air on your skin; you shift and raise your hands to let him remove your shirt entirely.

Things like this had been so rote for you before. Undress, entertain, be someone’s comfort. You’re lost everytime you find yourself in this space with Ravus. Gone are your usual practices, replaced with his guidance and tempered patience. And you’d never gotten this far before.

He tosses your shirt aside, his hands so large, they cover your breasts when he touches you again. The calluses make his palms rough, hardening your nipples. One hand leaving to hold himself up, he ducks his head to curl his tongue around a peak before biting down.

You moan, your hands coming to his head to tangle in his hair. He nips at you, tugging the nub between his teeth and sucking. The sound of it in the small room is so loud to you, it’s embarrassing. His heavy breaths cool your wet skin as he moves on to the other breast. His teasing like this is new, and when he begins to move lower, you’re surprised further.

You look down at him as he dips his tongue into your navel. “Wh-what are you doing?”

His fingers play with the lining of your panties, delving underneath while his eyes meet yours. A smirk plays at his lips, and he pulls the soft cotton down. Your knees bend, legs wanting to close. But he’s between them, lifting you with his large hands and taking your undergarments off with a rough tug. It digs into your thighs, and your hands fall from his hair to cover yourself. Your body, already heated by his touch, warms further with embarrassment as he chuckles.

“Bashful, are we?”

Casting away the wad of your underwear, he smooths his hands over your hips and down your thighs. His touch is so careful, so unfamiliar on your skin in these places. You slowly move your hands, eyes trained on his as they trail downward to take you in.

His lips part, a quiet breath leaving him. You do feel oddly shy in the moment, and it’s a minor relief that a rosy color is bleeding into his own pale features. One of his hands brushes over you, fingertips grazing the tuft of hair before delving lower. He tilts his head, silver strands of hair covering part of his face.

You lift a hand to brush it behind an ear. In the same moment, he slides the tips of his fingers in a slow circle at your core. Your fingers catch in his hair, drawing him down. Without hurry, he presses a finger in, his thumb teasing, his entire body hot above yours. This invasion, like everything else, is unfamiliar. It leaves you tense, which he eases out of you with careful curls of his long fingers, adding another inside the wetter you become.

He kisses you, and it’s hard this time, pushing you back into the pillows. He quiets your moans with his mouth while his fingers coax you into a whimpering mess. It aches deliciously, his fingers touching old places in new ways. Then, it tingles and stretches down to your toes, which curl on either side of him.

Breaking the kiss, he’s moving downward again, his knees making the bed creak. Your hand falls to your side, your lips swollen and sore. You watch him, curious about his intent. This is such an unexplored territory, so beyond you, you’re at his mercy for whatever could come next.

He arches downward, his tongue darting out to caress the place his thumb keeps rubbing. Your legs jerk and tighten. His eyes flick up to meet yours, his fingers sliding out of you. The loss is immediate; you whine again and reach down, but he’s quick, taking your hand in his own, fingers slotting between yours.

His mouth meets your sensitive flesh, his lips pulling and tongue teasing. You squirm, but his hold on both your hand and your thigh is firm. You move your free hand to your mouth to keep the moaning back. Unbelievable how something could feel so good with no effort on your part. 

Ravus lifts his head for a moment, his breath hitting you in gentle pants that chill your over sensitive body. His eyes are searching, his magitek hand gripping just a little too hard onto your thigh. When he speaks, it’s in thick, heady Tenebraen. Like something’s caught in his throat, very similar to how your own feels now at the intensity of his attentions.

_ “Don’t silence yourself. I want to hear you.” _

You moan when his mouth returns to you. His tongue explores deeper, his nose pressing insistently against the most sensitive spot. He’s watching you, and you’re compelled to listen. Dropping your hand to your side to clutch at the sheets, you fill the room with every cry he teases out of you.

—

You want to pull your headscarf down over your face every time he looks your way. Staying in Meldacio for the day, you’re wandering the area in an attempt to find ways to help. You’re due back to Lestallum with another shipment the next day, and you’re holding it off until the last possible moment.

You have a feeling Ravus will withdraw himself with another trip soon. It’s been a few months since his last disappearance, and you want to make the most of your time together before he stalks back into the shadows. It’s a difficult thing to do, though, when you’re suddenly overcome with an unbearable timidity each time he meets your gaze.

What had he _ done _ to you that morning? You’ve been touched gently before; people have used you for much softer pleasures than just sex in the past. But you’ve never experienced anything like what he did. Was it some kind of Tenebraen thing? You’ve always held the notion that Accordans were the best lovers, and no Lucian or Imperial has ever come close to impressing you.

You want to ask, but you’re embarrassed. He’d made you come apart more than once, and usually you didn’t find an orgasm in the act at all. It always seemed like enough because you enjoy the practice itself. You like being someone’s comfort, especially with someone you care so much about.

What happened in the caravan was… backwards, and you’re still processing it.

Ravus walks past you, another hunter by his side. It’s a new face, a blonde man who doesn’t seem to know when to stop talking. Ravus isn’t paying attention to him, looking your way as they pass. You swallow when he gives you a small nod.

_ “Pay attention!” _

You jump at the yell, securing the collection of curatives in your arms before they can tumble to the ground. Looking at the supplier next to you sheepishly, you’re about to apologize for your momentary distraction. But Ravus stops and looks down at the Imperial.

_ “Mind yourself,” _ he growls as a hand comes to the hilt of his sword. It’s always at his side, but you’ve never seen him use it. You don’t think that’ll change now, with the way the supplier nods and backs away a step. The curatives in his own arms rattle from a light shake.

The blonde man next to Ravus blinks, staring between everyone. He offers a hand out to you, some unintelligible words coming out of his mouth. Ravus knocks his hand away, saying something to him in Lucian that you have no hope of understanding. You’ve lived in Lucis for nearly a decade; it’s safe to say you’re never going to learn the language if you haven’t already.

“Shall I see you for the midday meal?” Ravus asks, turning to you.

You nod and blush at the way his eyes slowly travel over you. There are people about! You don’t want that blonde stranger or the supplier or _ anyone _ figuring out what Ravus had done to—for?—you that morning.

Walking away first, you don’t look back to see if the supplier is following. Your heart thuds rapidly, the discomfort too strong to face him any longer. You need to fix this.

—

In all the times you’ve visited hunter headquarters over the past year, you’ve never once seen Ravus partake in the same menial tasks that most of the residents seem to rotate. Today’s no different; the man you care so much about is currently barking what must be orders in Lucian that most other hunters follow without pushback. He _ had _ been a commander, you reason. Leadership looks natural on him, and it would be a lie to say you aren’t attracted to that.

Tattoo, who you see more often than any other hunter in Meldacio—aside from your very own—scoffs at something Ravus says. You like Overbite more, personally, just because you’re able to talk to him. But Tattoo can be very entertaining.

Stackings cans of food into a small crate, you watch the way Tattoo crosses his arms as he faces Ravus. He’s not wearing a shirt, which only makes you grin when Ravus scowls and points a finger toward Tattoo’s chest before he seems to think better of it. You don’t need to know what they’re saying to read the situation. The more Tattoo speaks, the harder Ravus snarls. All it seems to take is a few words and a laugh from the commodore to shut them up.

Ravus turns away from them both, coincidentally toward you, a hand raking his hair back in frustration. Seeing this as your chance, you grab the handles of the crate and pretend to struggle with lifting it. Ravus’ hand drops to his side as he looks down at you.

“So heavy,” you say, putting the crate back on the ground. “If only there was someone strong to help me.”

Peeking up at him, you catch him arching an eyebrow. He makes no move to help you whatsoever.

With a soft sigh, you right yourself and look purposely around him toward Tattoo, who’s speaking to the commodore just meters away.

“He looks capable,” you say to yourself. You bring hands to the tied ends of the headscarf at the back of your head and walk toward him. “Maybe if I put on my charms—”

You’re cut off by a large hand coming down on your head, stopping you from removing the scarf. You look up as Ravus lets go. Your hair is a little mussed, but it’s worth the subtle roll of his eyes. He bends and picks up the crate, his expression flat at just how light it actually is. You smile up at him.

“Thanks. Come with me.” You lead him to one of the storage buildings, fixing your headscarf on the way.

The door to the building is heavy and creaky. Ravus passes you as you hold it open, placing the crate down where you point to. As encouraging as it is to be able to convince him to do things he normally wouldn’t, you feel powerful now that you have him right where you want him.

He tilts his head as you shut the door behind yourself, fingers fumbling with the lock because you don’t want to break eye contact. He thinks he can just eat you out and get away with it? You don’t know how things work in Tenebrae, but you’re not going to stew in your embarrassment any longer.

You lick your lips and step toward him. The building is a single room with concrete walls and no windows. You don’t want to know what it could’ve been used for prior to the fall of civilization and the loss of the sun, and it sure as hell isn't the most ideal location for what you want to do. The air is dank, and the floor is uneven, but it’s secure and private.

Ravus easily stands his ground, peering down at you with mild curiosity. Waiting.

He's too tall for you to kiss directly, even if you extend yourself up onto the tips of your toes. So you hope he meets you when you place hands on his chest and stretch.

“This is hardly the place for such behavior,” he says before cupping your face and bending to brush his lips over your own.

You can tell he intends to stop, to keep it chaste, but you stop him from pulling away with an insistent grip on his shirt. Tilting your head, you deepen the contact and dip your tongue into his mouth. He’s too solid to be pushed back, so you don’t waste time trying. Instead, you slide one of your hands down his chest. The defined lines of his stomach are apparent through the fabric. His hands leave your cheeks in response, going directly to your waist to bring you flush to him.

It’s not exactly what you want at this moment, but you whimper, pleased with the slight hardness you feel against your stomach. So soon? You’ve experienced his moments of excitement, though they’re rare and quickly repressed. You smile into the kiss, wondering if the inappropriate location has anything to do with the quicker reaction from his body. Your hand travels lower, ending there to rest over it.

He breaks the kiss, his lidded eyes shifting between your own. A sharp inhale parts his lips when you rub the bulge in his pants. You’re tentative but assured, grabbing it to coax an even harder state to life. His increasing breaths let you know it’s working.

You back away from him, both hands making quick work of his belt. You’re expecting much more resistance, peeking up as you unzip him. The single overhead bulb, dim from the low wattage, is still bright enough to expose the red flush of his skin. He lets go of you to brush back strands of hair that have fallen into his face, a move he punctuates by taking your face into his hands once again, bending to kiss you. It’s hard and lingering; you take it as an accent. His mouth leaves yours, and he leans back against a stack of crates.

Hands finding purchase on his thighs, you squat to undo him further. You’re not prepared for the size of him once you pull the waistband of his underwear down to set it free. You stare at it, warmth blooming on your face.

_ Congratulations, Ravus. _

Setting yourself in motion, you begin to mentally tick off a long familiar list. First, a hand at the base of him. You move your tongue around your mouth, conjuring saliva to ease the process. The sooner you taste the salt of his seed, the greater sense of accomplishment you’ll feel. Second, your tongue pressing the tip. It’s already beading with precum and—

A hand, cold metal at your cheek gives you pause. Your train of thought, moving through the motions as usual, is halted. You look up at him, your lips around the head of his cock, unmoving.

“Mon amour,” he murmurs, strands of his hair falling in his arch down. He twitches in your hand, and you swirl your tongue around the tip. His jaw loosens, eyes growing lidded. “Are you certain?”

As much as you’d love to have a chat about how desperately you want to make him come in your mouth, you answer with pressure, sucking on his sensitive flesh before taking more of him into your mouth. Your tongue follows a vein, saliva spilling from the corner of your mouth. It’s a sloppy act, no matter how practiced.

Ravus shudders at the contact, moaning through clenched teeth. It spurs you forward, taking more of him until your eyes are watering. He’s thick and musky, the tip hitting the back of your throat. Well beyond having a proper gag reflex, you begin to move your head back and forth, sliding him out with sticky, wet movements, only to draw him back in.

His hands move to your head, tangling into the scarf and your hair. He doesn’t press you to him harder, like you expect. It throws you off again, his gentle touch, fingers sliding the scarf off to trail through your hair.

Third step, you try to think, is to give other parts of him attention. The hand you’ve kept at the base of him moves lower to knead his—

A string of Tenebraen spills from him, followed by his cum, hot on your tongue. You still, feeling him jerk in your mouth as he comes more. It’s so soon, and you’re somewhat shocked. His breaths are harsh, his hands in your hair shaky.

You slowly pull him out of your mouth, looking up at his face. Eyes closed, chest heaving, he leans further back against the crates behind him. You’re stilled by this, by his flushed skin and clenched hands. Then, you swallow it down, both the sight and taste of him. His cum is bitter and as unpleasant as any other you’ve had, but you’re left feeling strange.

Leaning back, you let go of his length and watch it bob a little. It’s already waning, pink and glistening in the dim light. His unsteady fingers tuck him away, and when you stand up, his eyes are open again. You touch his arm while he buttons himself up, leaning up to kiss his jaw.

“I’ll see you later,” you say, your voice sounding off because your throat is still recovering. Your lips feel swollen; you pinch them between your front teeth and go to the door. He quickly asks for you to wait, and you pretend not to hear it over the clicking of the lock.

Tattoo is standing near the doorway, several crates stacked next to him. He watches you wipe at your mouth and adjust your headscarf as you pass by. Moments later, when you’re rounding the corner, you hear the loud creak of the storage building door and Tattoo’s booming laughter behind you.

—

Astrals, you’ve either done something terribly wrong or terribly right. In any direction, it’s terrible; that’s all you can be certain of.

Ravus won’t look at you. His jaw is tight and when he speaks to others, the manner is even more curt than usual. You glance intermittently at him from across the fire at dinner. Overbite made some kind of vegetable medley of which you’re guiltily eating secret seconds while he asks you the occasional question. Your attention keeps going to Ravus, who’s chosen to sit clear across the campfire. You don’t realize how rude you’re being until Overbite clears his throat. You stir what's in your bowl, your gaze dropping from Ravus.

“I’ll take no offence should you choose to change seats,” Overbite says.

You shake your head, wishing you could will away the blush coming to your face. “I think we’re fighting right now.”

He hummed. “An interesting way to describe the longing yet uncomfortable looks toward one another.”

You look at him first, your eyes growing wide as his words process. Then, you glance toward Ravus again. He isn’t looking your way at all, and you frown at being tricked into getting excited over nothing. You pick at your food quietly, staring down into your bowl. What you’d done in the storage shed had seemed like a great idea, but it’s regrettable in retrospect. Kind of. You’d treated him like any other client of the past. The only thing you hadn’t done was stick around for a payment.

The blonde stranger you keep seeing around approaches your end of the campfire, and you’re immediately put off. You stand up as soon as he sits, muttering a goodbye to Overbite. It takes every bit of your self control to not look at Ravus on your way back to the caravan. You should apologize, right?

The feeling overwhelming you now is vastly different from the embarrassment of before. You’d loved finally getting so close to Ravus, but the way you went about it was all wrong. He’d hated it. That’s why he won’t look at you.

Right?!

You rub your hands down your face with a drawn out groan. Suddenly, you miss the simplicity of exchanging your warmth for a living. The boundaries for that had been much more defined.

—

You pace the expanse of the caravan, nervously eyeing the door to the bathroom. It has only been ten minutes since Ravus had disappeared inside, but with each one that passes, you grow closer to fleeing. You’ve decided you will not apologize. You’re not sorry. Not even a little. You enjoyed what you’d done, and you’d do it again!

If he ever allows it.

The bathroom door opens, and you self-consciously touch your hair. It’s still damp from your shower after dinner, and now you’re wishing you’d spent less time fretting. Ravus steps out of the bathroom with only a towel around his waist. You blink and turn around, your hands coming up to touch the little windowsill by the bed.

His footsteps are heavy behind you, and it catches you by surprise when a hand touches your waist. You look over your shoulder, meeting his eyes. He leans down, chin resting on your head while his arm snakes around you.

“Amour.”

Forced to look forward, you lift your hands to rest on his arm at your middle. “Ravus, what happened earlier—”

He hushes you, his arm tightening. “I apologize for my inadequacy.”

You frown, wishing you could face him. “What?”

He speaks into your hair. “Your touch has a profound effect.”

Wiggling in his arm, you get him to loosen his hold. Stumbling a little on his feet, you turn around to look up at him. His face is dusted with pink, striking you doubly as his words process. “Is _ that _ why you’ve been mad at me?”

He frowns. “I’m not angry with you.”

“Ravus, I-I don’t care how long it takes you to come,” you say, a relieved smile threatening your face. “It’s kind of flattering I can do that to you, actually.”

He isn’t amused by this. His eyes search your face, then travel further down to the low neckline of his shirt that hangs loosely off your frame. Stark realization hits you that he’s still wearing only a towel. Color comes to your own face, your hands lifting to grip at his shoulders. Rising on your toes, you incline your head.

He lets out a quick, soft breath that hits your arched neck. Then, in a swift movement, he presses his mouth to yours. It’s more wanting than any of the kisses from before, his tongue forcing its way past your lips as he tilts his head. One of your hands slips, catching at the inner joint of his elbow. You use that to press yourself further into him, meeting his passion equally.

“Undress,” he says after breaking the contact. “And lie down.”

Still—possibly forever—unused to not being the one to do all of the work in a sexual encounter, you step away from him hesitantly. That strange bit of reserve comes back to you. But he’s letting his towel drop, forgotten on the floor while he attaches his arm. You feel a rush at his readiness in the face of your own uncertainty and listen, climbing onto the bed as you pull the shirt over your head.

He devours the sight of you like he had that morning, joining you on the bed with hands that revere very part of you they touch. From your feet to your neck, they slowly travel upward until he’s over you, and your impatience is growing close to tipping over the ledge. He listens in turn, lining himself up with your entrance when you scratch a long mark along his chest at the prolonged foreplay.

You will _ never _ get used to it, you’ve already decided.

It feels like any other experience at first, the initial pressure and invasion that gives a bit of relief to the ache. Except it doesn’t stop when you think it will. He sinks into you, further and deeper, until your legs tighten around him reflexively.

“Ravus,” you say, your nails digging into his shoulders. Looking down to the juncture where his body meets yours is a bit of a shock. “It’s— it’s not all the way in yet?”

He pauses above you, sharp eyes growing wide. “Are you alright?”

You open your mouth, then close it and nod your head. Tightening your legs around him further, you dig your heels into the back of his thighs. He better not stop. You’re beginning to adjust to the feeling of him in you; he can’t pull out now.

He eases in more, but it’s much slower than before. Every small movement brings him closer. His body is too hot, and his hair tickles your face when he arches over you. There’s hesitation, a softness to his touch that makes you squirm.

“Ravus, please.”

He touches your cheek, his mouth opening while his eyes wander your face. You stop him before he can speak, lifting a hand to cover his mouth. He blinks, and you have to shake your head to make your point more explicit.

“I’m not fragile.”

His hand leaves your face to pull yours from his mouth. “You are.”

Knocking his hand away, you push your palm against his chest. The loss of him is immediate and disappointing, his immense heat disappearing as he slides out of you. You frown up at him, still pushing him away until he’s sitting back on his knees. Confusion knits his brow, one of his hands rising to brush hair out of his face.

“Lay down,” you order, crawling to one side of the bed.

He doesn’t listen, instead looking down at you with growing confusion. “Have I hurt you?”

It’s impossible to take his concern seriously with his massive erection just _ there, _ taunting you. “I’m trying to fuck you, Ravus, but you’re making it difficult.”

Finally, he follows your direction, laying back after you motion with your hand. The bed isn’t big enough, and it creaks loudly when you climb over him. You straddle his thighs and take him in hand. The head is wet from being inside you, and you smooth your palm over it, spreading it down the shaft until the skin begins to pull again at the base.

He’s a large man, and this is going to be a challenge. But nothing was going to get done if he’d remained on top. You lift yourself, bracing a hand on his abs, and rub him against yourself.

“Feel that?”

A heavy breath leaves him, and one of his hands comes to your thighs to squeeze in response. It draws you down slightly, but you resist. He needs to feel what he does to you first. You want him to realize how different this is for you. Smoothing your hand over him again, you rub yourself with the tip of his cock in slow, teasing motions.

The concern in his expression melts away. His eyes begin on yours, then trace down your body to where your hand keeps slowly jerking at him, prodding but not letting him in. The budding pink on his face urges you on, and you lean your weight onto the hand at his abs to begin easing him in. It’s still slow, letting him sink into you, but having control makes it easier. His fingers dig into your thigh, his other hand coming to your hip hold you flush against him once your body fully meets his.

You have to close your eyes, breaths rocking out of you at the heavy invasion. The ache between your legs feels momentarily sated, and it curls your toes, sends a shiver over you, makes you moan. You sit there for a moment, adjusting to the feeling.

“Amour—”

Eyes opening, you lean forward to cover his mouth with your hand. “I love you, but you need to hush.”

He stares at you, his mouth closing when you remove your hand. You touch his chest next, trailing it gradually down to rest next to your other hand at his stomach. Gingerly rising and sinking onto him again, you build a steady rhythm. He tenses beneath you, his hands like large vices on your thighs.

You keep it languid, rolling your hips without hurry. There’s so much of him, and your body is singing. Every time your body meets his, his jaw tightens. You want to coerce noise out of him just like he had to you that morning, but it’s as if he refuses.

He won’t even close his eyes. They keep roaming your body before meeting yours again. Sitting upright on him, you raise a hand to play with your breasts. Picking up in pace, you ride him faster. His hands on you tighten again, this time digging nails into your tender thighs to draw you down even harder.

A smile comes to you at the loss of his patience. He’s hitting the deepest part of you, and it weakens your arms. Leaning forward, you rest over him to revel in the feeling. You can’t quite reach him for a kiss. Your mouth barely meets his collar, so you rest your head against his chest, hands gripping his biceps tightly as he takes the lead and buries himself into you again and again.

He’s finally letting himself go. You moan against his sweaty chest, your skin pulling and sticking when you rise moments later. He arches forward, his abs taut beneath you, to crush his mouth to yours. He’s saying something against your lips, your ear, your hair. You don’t understand, too overwhelmed by everything he’s making you feel.

You’re a wound coil, tightening until you see nothing but white. His voice kisses your skin, and your legs clench around him when you reach your peak. Your heartbeat thuds loudly in your ears. Pleasure burns and ripples through you, from your core, spiraling outward. You throw your head back, gasping for air, gripping onto him, grinding for more friction to elicit any last remaining thrills in your comedown.

Whatever he’d been saying becomes nothing. He grunts with his final thrusts, holding you tightly against him. His body is a furnace, and you’re a coil, unwinding in the comfort of his burning embrace. Lying still, you can feel him twitching inside. To remain this way is odd; it’s extremely unhygienic at best. But, for some reason, you don’t want to move.

Catching your breath, you relax against him fully and close your eyes. “I think I’ll sleep here.”

To your surprise, he laughs. It’s soft, barely above a breath in sound. You feel it in his chest against your cheek, and it makes you lift your head to look at him. Eyes cracking open, you find yourself right. He’s smiling, although it’s small. His hands gently prod your sides.

“I love you, but you must get up.”

You stare at him, removing yourself when he urges you a little more. Your body is loose, your muscles relaxed and singing with the remnants of pleasure. You roll onto your back and try to even out your heavy breaths. It’s useless; the heart in your chest keeps beating faster.

“Do it again,” you say, tilting your head to look at him.

He brushes hair away from his sweaty forehead before returning your gaze. “Amour, I have every intent to continue, but there is a refractory period for even the strongest man.”

You reach for him, touching his chest. “No… say it again.”

He’s silent, staring at you then up at the ceiling. You sit up and lean over him. His body is still hot against your hands, and his chest is slick with sweat. His eyes are forced to meet yours when you get in his face.

“Ravus, say it.”

He brings a hand to your cheek, his fingers tangling into your hair and moving it out of the way. “I’d like to assert that you were the first to make such a proclamation.”

He sounds awfully defensive. A laugh tumbles out of you at the way his face reddens, not from what you’d done together but from something as silly as admitting how he feels. He’d been inside you only seconds ago, and he’s embarrassed over _ this? _

You lean closer, the tip of your nose skimming against his. “Say it again.”

His eyes flit between your own. “I no longer wish to.”

“Say it.”

He frowns, and his fingers curl, catching at the nape of your neck. Before you realize it, he draws you down, lips meeting yours. Hands braced at his chest, you return the kiss. His hand leaves your neck to trace down your shoulder and grasp at your side. You make a noise, ticklish at the motion, and pull back to smile at him.

“Ti amo.”

He doesn’t smile back, but his gaze is unyielding. “Je t'aime.”

You close your eyes, dropping to rest your forehead against his. “I can’t even remember the last time someone said that to me.”

“Nor can I.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

Taking a long breath, you rest like that for a moment longer. Your heart is finally beginning to settle, although your chest remains tight and warm. You sit back, all too aware now of the mess between your thighs.

“Let’s shower.”

Ravus sits up once you leave the bed, confusion on his face. “There isn’t room for us both.”

You take hold of his hand and tug. “There will be if you hold me close.”

He lifts with your pull, giving into your suggestion even as he glances down at his magitek arm with mild unease.

You let go of his hand to tap the refined metal with the tips of your fingers. “Take that off and join me. I _ know _ you can lift me with one arm.”

His brow is pinched, and he looks up at you with a renewed frown. “That may be so—”

Raising your hand to cover his mouth with your fingers, you shake your head. “I reek of sex and sweat. Isn’t that hurting your delicate sensibilities?”

He pulls your hand from his mouth. You think he’s going to reprimand you, but he smiles. It’s brief, a glimpse of him you’re not sure anyone knows is there.

You can’t wait to discover more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <strike>(obvious)</strike>Translations  
Ti amo. - _I love you._ (Italian)  
Je t'aime. - _I love you._ (French)  
I feel like Ravus' arm may not detach? I just like the idea that it could! lmao
> 
> Thanks for reading Ravy giving you his gravy <3


	8. Regretful Rift

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for time skips like mad.

“I don’t like him,” you grumble on your way through the market.

A step behind you, Aranea makes a small sound. A near laugh. “Why’s that, queenie?”

You stop to look back at her, not addressing the unwanted nickname. “He’s… énervant.”

“Annoying?”

“That’s what I said,” you insist, bending to pick up a bag of rice from a box at the base of a stall. It’s the last one, and you hope it will tide you over for the next several weeks. The threat of having a dependent, therefore losing your home, has become a recent Thing in your life with Ravus, so you’ve been on edge and need the reassurance of sustenance, if nothing else. “He follows you around like a lost chocobo, and he tries to talk to me every time I’m at headquarters.”

“Can you blame him for wanting to be your friend?”

She’s amused, clearly, and for that, you don’t let her help you pick up the heavy sack, elbowing her away when she attempts to take it from you.

“He’s the— the most Imperial-looking person I’ve ever seen, and he only knows how to speak Lucian. It’s repoussant. Brut. Le pire absolu.” You’re using Tenebraen because it sounds more insulting that way for some reason. Like you’re clearing your throat, ready to spit into the face of the person you’re talking about.

She arches a brow. “All those lessons in Ravus’ caravan are doing you good, kid.”

Great. Another reference to your sex life. This is only the third time she’s poked at you about it today. You put the sack of rice on the stall’s table and dig into your pocket for your money. “Are you even listening to me?”

She reaches past you, handing gil to the merchant before you can even get your own. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll tell Prompto to stop bothering you next time we’re there.”

With an annoyed look on your face that belies the bloom of affection in your chest, you pick up the bag of rice and look at your friend. “He doesn’t bother me. He just makes things… uncomfortable.”

With his _ too _ blue eyes and _ very _ blonde hair, you can’t really stand to look at him. You know it isn’t his fault, but you can’t control the gut feelings of abject discomfort at the sight. His features are too similar. It hits too close to memories that continue to hurt.

Aranea guides you through the crowds with a hand at your upper back. “So you’re not used to being treated nicely. I get it.”

“People are nice to me,” you say with a scoff.

As if to prove you wrong, someone bumps directly into you. They come in hard from your left, and the sack falls from your arms. Another person rushes past, stepping atop it on their way. They tell you to _ move, get out of the way— look! _ One of Aranea’s arms curls around your waist, pulling you back from the people now shoving past you through the market. Confused, you look around for what they’re running from.

It’s not in fear, you realize, as people begin to cry and cheer into the thick, hot Lestallum air. They’re running _ toward _ something.

You wiggle in her grip, and she lets go. There’s never been an explanation for her turn in attitude, the protection she gives without request. After a year of it, of Ravus’ trips out and the occasional ride along with her on a run when your companion can’t make it, you’ve gotten comfortable having a friend watching your back.

One of her hands falls between you, and you catch hold of it before she can tuck it into a pocket. Drawing her with you, you follow the crowds. It’s a rush of soles against stone, people yelling, and your heart beating quicker in your chest. You look up, past the lifted arms and pointed fingers.

The endless black of the sky is slowly giving way to dark shades of blue. You almost trip when you look back at Aranea. “What’s happening?”

She doesn’t answer, keeping you steady with her free hand at your back. It’s impossible to see until you’re in the open plaza near the primary entrance of town. Sunlight. It washes everything in stark yellows, illuminating the dank buildings around you. It’s a blessing you don’t have a clear view of the sun itself. The last thing you need is to look directly at it, which so many others seem determined to do as they continue past you toward the main gate.

You turn around to face Aranea, whose mouth has fallen open. _ “I’ll be damned,” _ she mutters in Nif. _ “They finally did it.” _

It’s been a decade since you’ve felt the warmth of sunlight, and now you’re standing in it. Within moments of thinking ahead to what the darkness would bring if you didn’t buy rice soon enough. “Is this really happening?”

She finally looks at you, a smile growing on her shocked face. “We should go to Insomnia.”

“What?” You shake your head, not knowing where this was coming from so suddenly.

“We should go, queenie. See the king and welcome him back. Bet that’s where Ravus is now.”

You frown, peering up at the slowly brightening sky. She never makes any sense to you. “I don’t own anything nice enough to wear in front of a king.”

She laughs as the sun begins to peek over the high wall that surrounds the city. You blink against it, already deciding you’re going to leave Lestallum. But not for Insomnia.

—

You lean on the railing of the ferry, gazing out at the calm sea that surrounds you. Sunlight sparkles in pinpricks along the surface, stretching out into the distance. This is vastly different than your previous experience traveling overseas.

“Must you linger by the edge?”

You look over your shoulder, sending Ravus a smile. “I can’t get over how pretty it is.”

“There are far lovelier things on this vessel alone.”

You face toward the sea again, both the sunlight and a blush warming your face. You’re happy he’s coming with you on this journey.

_ “Hey, queenie, Four Eyes is making tea. Care for some?” _

You lean a little heavier on the railing. Of course Aranea and the Arsenal are with you. They’re all displaced and looking forward to going home just as much as you are.

_ “I’m good, Aranea.” _ You sigh into the salty air, annoyed that you have to use Nif when you have two perfectly well mannered men on board to speak Accordan with. Never mind that one of them has taken to specifically using Lucian anytime Aranea is around.

As if on cue, Overbite leans back through the doorway to the main cabin to smile. He says something in Lucian you don’t understand, but Aranea loves it. You roll your eyes as she laughs. It’s disgusting, all of it.

A body settles next to you at the railing. You lean into it, knowing it’s Ravus without looking. He’s taken to wearing some kind of white frock that you’d noticed in his closet a few times but never thought to ask about. It’s made of fine material, silky against your cheek as he puts an arm around you.

Some part of you had been sad to part with Lucis. It had been your home for more than a third of your life. Now, as the islands of your home country begin to appear on the distant horizon, you want nothing more than to push forward. To see what’s left of your old life.

—

Nothing remains.

Ravus is quiet while he follows you between the empty buildings. Everyone else is a league of ocean away, exploring what used to be Altissia. The air is silent, broken only by the occasional soft gasp that leaves you.

Your visit is meant to measure only one day at most, but you fear it’ll be much shorter. There’s nothing here. The gods must have some sick sort of humor because the bordello you’d once worked in is intact but your family home no longer stands, much like the rest, reduced to rubble and otherwise barren lots. The emptiness provokes nothing. Memories don’t come to you like you expect. Neither does grief. It’s as if you’re discovering something entirely new. This isn’t your home. It’s—what had Ravus once said of his own homeland?—a shadow of its former glory.

Set into a mountain, the town is as steep as you remember, the roadways narrow between buildings. The cobblestone is more dirt than rock, layered over with the same dusty film of grey that covers everything. What had been arch-lined alleyways and homes covered in flora in your youth are now crumbling bits of stone. Nothing but foundations of what had once been.

“I thought…” You stop at the edge of a high walkway. It overlooks another row of empty buildings below. These are more intact than what you’d seen so far. You look through the holes in the architecture, unsure of what to do now. “Ravus, I thought it would be different.”

“How so?”

You shrug, suddenly listless. After telling him so much in all of your time together, explaining your culture and describing your home, this must be disappointing for him. You’re not sure how you feel about it yourself. You hope, for his sake, that Tenebrae has more left to preserve.

—

“I’m staying in Accordo.”

Ravus stares at you. As he should because it’s an awful thing for you to announce right before two thirds of the expedition moves on from Altissia to Tenebrae. You feel guilty. He’d gone with you to your hometown, but you can’t do the same for him. As much as you want to be with him every step of the way, you’re compelled, by the atrocious state of things, to stay and help rebuild your home.

_ Something _ will be preserved. You’re going to make sure of it.

Ravus nods once, the frown on his face growing. You don’t like the look of it, but it can’t be helped. He brushes strands of hair out of your face, tucking them behind an ear. No headscarf today; you have work to do. Smoothing his other hand down your hair, he draws you to him as he bends and presses his lips to your forehead.

If it weren’t for him, you would be crumbling as easily as the ruins around you. You grab the front of his frock to keep him from parting from you. Aranea and the Arsenal are already ushering refugees of Imperials and the scant number of Tenebraens toward the docks. He’s leaving, and the guilt is settling heavier in your stomach.

“I won’t be long,” you say. It’s a whisper against the noise of the others around you. “I’ll visit you soon. I promise.”

There’s more you want to say, but it’s caught between you when he pulls you to him. His hold is tight and comforting. When he draws away this time, you’re expecting another brush of his fingers along your cheek, something chaste, the barest bit of affection he allows the world to see.

Instead, his lips meet yours. They’re crushing, his hold at your waist growing tighter. Your hands slide upward, holding onto his shoulders. You meet him with the same passion, and in this moment, it’s unbelievable. The sunlight and salty air. His fancy clothes and hard body. The sound of laughter and life surrounding you.

You grip tighter, not wanting this to end. This is the reason you’d survived through the darkness. This is what you’d been waiting for. It feels like an ending, even with the task of rebuilding your home laid out in front of you. You can tell, in the firmness of his hold, in the way he seems to want to memorize the press of your body against his own, that Ravus feels it, too.

—

Delicate and yellow, the flower blooming from a vine by one of your office windows holds your attention. Progress is slow. You’re crawling toward the future you envision. Each structure on the island rebuilt, each new family of refugees that decide to move in, each meeting with the reformed government set in place in Altissia— it brings you closer to what you want for your home.

The flower is proof that things are working, although at a painfully languid pace. You look from it to Claustra, her words catching up to you and drawing you out of your thoughts. This meeting is only the third of many scheduled this week, and you are already exhausted. Politics is repetitive; absolutely nothing could’ve prepared you for that fact or this role you’ve stumbled into on the sheer tenacity to see your home come back to life. All you want to do is help what’s left of your people.

“But we didn’t have a president before,” you say, shaking your head. Never had you thought you’d be talking with the First Secretary herself, let alone debating with her as often as you have been these past months. “The island was always governed by a member of the council in Altissia.”

Claustra nods slowly. “There’s no precedent, but the population is growing far too rapidly to not set a leader in place to focus solely on the rebirth of the region.”

You agree, you really do. You just don’t understand why it has to be _ you. _ “We have to hold an election. Let the people decide.”

“They will. You’ll act as interim until someone is inaugurated.”

Fingers curling around the pen in your hands, you hold back a sigh. “No one else wants to?” You look toward your companion, the same person who’d spent the last two years with you in the darkness. You know he loves to talk. There’s no one better for it. “What about you?”

He smiles unhelpfully. “You’re the only one who’s native from the island. It has to be you.”

That’s an absurd reason, but Claustra is nodding along with him. Then she moves on to the next subject, as if that one is settled, issue-free. With pursed lips, you look toward the window again. The flower moves with a breeze, the leaves around it rustling silently beyond the glass.

You miss Ravus.

—

“You’re not wearing your headscarf.”

You look up from your desk, surprised that your companion hadn’t left with the others. No surprise, though, that he’d notice such a small thing. Half a year has passed since you’d last seen or spoken to Ravus.

On the occasional evening you leave the radio on, you do hear small bits of news that Tenebrae is rebuilding itself like the rest of Eos. It gives you hope that Ravus is finding a place for himself back home. Hopefully in a smoother manner than you are.

You touch your hair, tucking a lock behind an ear. Your companion is smiling. He’s always smiling. At every turn since you’d decided to stay in Accordo, he’s stuck by your side, true to his title. You appreciate everything he’s done, but it’s never quite enough to get your mind off of the more distant bits of grief that hit you.

“I don’t see your headscarf,” he says, taking a seat in the chair directly in front of your desk. “Or the man who gave it to you.”

Putting your pen down, you say, “If it’s not about work, you can go.”

He doesn’t move. “You’re not denying it?”

“Denying what?”

“That you’re not dating anyone.”

“Dating is the last thing on my mind right now.”

He leans forward, his head tilting. “Be kinder to yourself. Let me take you out.”

With a heavy sigh, you point to the door. “Get out of my office and be useful somewhere else.”

He finally leaves, chuckling all the way to the door. The wake of silence once he’s gone is somehow more irritating than anything he’d said. You sit back in your chair and fight a groan. For all the work you’re doing, you don’t have time to be lonely or think about entertaining a lover again. You stopped wearing the scarf because you don’t want it to get damaged. Seeing to all of the rebuilding means a lot of standing in dangerous zones and physically helping new residents move in. It doesn’t mean you’re over Ravus or what you’d had together.

Resting your head on your desk, you stretch out an arm and flip on the radio. The current program is about Insomnia. Big surprise. You keep it on anyway, closing your eyes. It provides a good backdrop of white noise as you pour through your thoughts.

Would it be fair to keep wearing the headscarf? If you’re being approached by someone, in all likelihood, Ravus is, too. Probably even moreso. There are less Tenebraens than Accordans by far, and Ravus is a gem among stones regardless of nationality. You squeeze your eyes, letting out that groan because the thought is upsetting.

He wouldn’t accept a new lover, would he? As if spoken by a daemon on your shoulder, another thought immediately counters that one. Why wouldn’t he? In fact, why _ shouldn’t _ he?

Lifting your head, you turn off the radio and pick up your pen. Focus on work, you tell yourself. Focus and your visit to Tenebrae will be on the horizon. Eventually. Someday.

You work on the draft of a new ordinance, pressing the pen down too hard and mentally ticking down the amount of days, weeks, months since you’d last seen him.

Far too many.

—

You put the coffee in front of Aranea with more excitement than seeing this woman should warrant. You won’t say you’re happy to see her. She can tell, and it’s just awful.

“How’ve you been, queenie?”

Sitting across from her, you pick up your own cup. Coffee is a new delicacy, the beans being the first luxury good to be imported into Accordo. They’re sent to be masterfully roasted by Accordan hands. Another step toward the future while retaining some of the past. You don’t particularly care for coffee, but had taken up the habit of drinking it daily since you’d quit smoking.

After getting through pleasantries, you talk about Altissia and your island. She has a fair amount of insight on how Niflheim is doing, something you’ve been in the dark on from the beginning. The radio programs never report on it. Perhaps as a way to reinforce the notion that Accordo is its own land again after so long under Imperial rule.

“You’re president?” She arches a brow, as if impressed.

“Interim president,” you correct.

“You’re getting pretty big here.” Resting an elbow on the table, she puts her chin in her palm. “He’d be impressed.”

You pause with the cup to your lips. A moment passes, the curl of her smirk growing. You lower your coffee and say, “I’m not big. Unless you mean my weight gain, then you’re right.”

She snorts. “Don’t be afraid to ask about him.”

“Why would I?”

“It’s alright to miss him. He misses you, too.”

You bite the inside of your cheek and look down into your coffee. “He told you that?”

“He didn’t have to.”

That’s not much of an answer. You don’t get the chance to point that out before she’s handing you a slip of paper.

“He wanted you to have this.”

You take it with a frown, looking between the string of numbers scrawled on the crumpled paper and her smiling face. “A phone number?”

“Call him. It’s a landline, but he’ll answer.”

“Landlines still exist?”

She shrugs. “You know what he’s like. The least accessible he is to others, the better.”

You nod and stare at the foreign arrangement of numbers. Ravus doesn’t want to be bothered unless absolutely necessary. You hope she’s right about her assumptions of him, that he misses you as much as you do him. You want to kick her out of your office to call him right now but refrain because you’re not sure what you’d say to him anyway.

You’d already broken your promise to visit and stopped wearing the headscarf. You tuck the phone number away and swallow down your guilt with a large gulp of coffee.

—

You hear the ringing through the earpiece of your phone. By the third chime, you can hardly make it out over the sound of your heart beating in your ears. You pinch a pen between your thumb and index finger, tapping it against your desk.

_ “Yes, hello?” _

You freeze at the sound of his voice, deep and smooth in tone. Inhaling a breath, you accidentally let it go right into the receiver. Holding the phone away from your face for a second, you clear your throat and bring it back to say, “Ravus, hi.”

A beat passes in silence, then his voice returns. Softer somehow. “Hello, amour.”

You smile at the pet name, dropping the pen on your desk to adjust the phone at your ear with both hands. Never in your entire life have you been this flustered. “How are you? It’s so nice to hear your voice.”

He hums in agreement. “I’m well. Tell me, how are you faring?”

You laugh lightly. “Miserable.”

Another moment of silence. Then, he says, “Truly?”

Your laugh dies on a heavy breath. “No? Yes? I’m being crushed by responsibility. I didn’t know what I was getting into by staying, and now I’m the person everyone keeps looking to for answers.”

“I understand how you feel, amour. Have you been reciting the important Tenebraen phrases for strength?”

You smile. _ “I am strong. Only I reign over myself.” _

“Isn’t there another?”

A second, more genuine laugh spills out of you. _ “I like Ravus. He is the best.” _

“I like you as well. Dearly.” He’s giving you a rare smile. You can hear it in his voice, and you wish you were with him to see it.

“Come to Accordo,” you blurt, the thought sudden but pressing.

He sounds hesitant. “I… A visit is overdue, yet—”

“No.” You move the phone from one ear to the other. “Come to live with me. Move here, Ravus. I— I promise I’ll make life here the best for you.”

The line grows quiet. You chew on your lip, and your heart picks up in pace again. You know you’re being unfair to spring this on him. But you don’t want to be without him any longer. Surely, he must feel the same.

“I cannot possibly do that.”

You look down at the pen on your desk. “Why not?”

“I have a responsibility to my kingdom.”

Sighing, you lean onto your desktop, pushing the pen aside to be with your paperwork. “You’ve mentioned this before. Ravus, you’re not the only one with a lot on your plate. I’m the president of my region.”

“Are you? Congratulations.”

You close your eyes tightly at the indifferent way he’s suddenly speaking. “So you see why I can’t leave to be with you. You can’t possibly understand the pressure I’m under. Please… can’t you put your mysterious responsibilities aside and choose _ me _ this time?”

The silence that follows makes you tense. When he does speak, you clench your jaw and rest your head against your desk.

“No. I’ve no wish to live in Accordo. My duty is to Tenebrae. You need to understand this, amour.”

“Don’t call me that,” you snap, your chest tightening painfully. “Even now, there are things you aren’t telling me.”

His tone is soft again when he says, “Perhaps now is the time to—”

“Save it.” You can’t believe you’d felt guilty about not having time to visit him when he refuses to even consider being with you. “It’s too late to start sharing your secrets.”

“Don’t say things you don’t mean.”

“No? I’m not allowed to be upset that you’re rejecting me?”

“It’s Accordo I’m rejecting.”

You open your eyes and lift your head, your voice raising with it. “What’s the difference? This is my life.”

“Evidently…” He takes a breath, and you feel your heart sink at the sound. “I no longer have a place within it.”

You blink at the moisture building in your eyes. “I guess not.”

“I see.”

You chew on your lip, not finding any kind of response outside of yelling at this point. This is hurting much more than you could’ve anticipated. Which you hadn’t, not in the slightest. Any number of things must keep him there—reintegration into the military, caring for what’s left of his family home, a new and better lover—but the reason hardly matters.

When you don’t say anything for a long stretch, he speaks again, his tone clipped. “Take care.”

You hang up without another word.

—

“Have you been crying?”

You frown at your companion as he hands you a cup of coffee. He’s visiting your small, recently rebuilt flat to give you new paperwork from Claustra. Your office is only a block away; he could’ve very well dropped them off there. You don’t know why you let him in, but he’s already made himself at home, taking off his coat and brewing coffee for you both.

“No,” you lie. Sipping the coffee, you close your eyes and relish the bitter taste you’re slowly growing to appreciate. You love it right now because you deserve the punishment. You deserve this disgusting bean juice.

He clearly doesn’t believe you, but you don’t offer any sort of explanation. You pick up the topmost document from the stack he’d brought and sit back on your couch.

“It’s too early for this,” you complain and drop it to your lap. The print is so small and packed with far too much legal jargon you’re still not used to dealing with.

“It’s two in the afternoon.”

You blink at him. “It’s what now.”

He walks across your living room and grips one of the curtains, drawing it back with a swift pull of his arm. Sunlight pours into the room, and you cover your eyes when it hits your face. He crosses the room again to stand in the way of the light.

“So why’ve you been crying?”

You drop your hand to glare at him. “I haven’t.”

He leans down to brush hair out of your face. You tense under the unexpected touch, then relax when he draws back. His expression is all concern, careful eyes pouring over you patiently. You frown harder. He’s making it difficult to dislike him. You don’t deserve his kindness. In fact— you lift the coffee mug to your mouth, tasting nothing but air.

Looking down into its emptiness, you sigh. “I’m alone again.”

You expect him to say something he thinks is funny, to make light of it until you force him to leave. Instead, he sits next to you and picks up his own mug he’s yet to drink from. He trades you, handing his off and taking yours.

“Since when have you been alone with me here?” He chuckles softly while putting your empty mug on the coffee table. When he faces you, he nods at the mug held between both of your hands. “Drink that. I’ll help you with this paperwork.”

He picks up the document you’d tossed down, sitting back with it. You take a sip from the mug, your gaze on him lingering until he flips the first page over and glances up at you.

“Thanks,” you murmur, leaning forward to put the mug down and grab the next document from the stack.

He elbows you lightly, a long familiar gesture you still don’t get. “Of course. I’m your guy.”

You settle in next to him, content for the first time in days. In weeks, really. It’s not ideal, but it’s where you’re finding yourself. He says he's your guy, and that would've upset you before. Before Ravus. Before everything. Now, the thought of truly being alone kind of terrifies you.

Maybe this is for the best.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Translation  
énervant - _annoying_  
Repoussant. Brut. Le pire absolu. - _Repulsive. Gross. The absolute worst._
> 
> This was the original ending.
> 
> Thanks for reading <3


	9. Delayed Discovery

You glance warily out the car window at the buildings and unfinished structures. Insomnia has done well for itself in rebuilding. Better than Accordo, it seems. The driver, following Claustra’s own private car just ahead, changes lanes, and your view of the city is cut off as you begin your descent down a ramp from the highway. The Citadel looms over all, still visible above the high walls that separate the roadway from the buildings. You stare at it until your attention is caught by your companion, who coughs next to you.

He looks miserable when you face him. Car sickness, he keeps saying. Right after getting over his seasickness from crossing the ocean, too. You don’t know how he’d traveled as a refugee with such a tendency for motion illness.

He’d turned down your suggestion for him to stay home. Which hasn’t helped the entire trek across Eos. He isn’t much more than a glorified assistant, after all. As a representative of your region, you’re attending this summit fully prepared to show how far you’ve come in the year since the Lucian king had gotten rid of the darkness. You don’t exactly need your companion to do that.

“You think we’ll be there soon?” he asks, tilting his head back on the headrest. He doesn’t appear pallid or sweaty, but you worry all the same.

“Almost.” It’s a false reassurance because you have no idea. The ramp from the highway leads down to a massive intersection, which your car drives through steadily, right on the tail of Claustra’s.

Down among the bases of the skyscrapers like this, you contend with watching the citizens as they walk along the streets. Many of them stare as you pass, seeing only dark tinted windows and little Accordan flags on the black vehicle. Your first time in Insomnia, and it’s in an armored car.

Life has a strange way of going in directions you never expect.

—

“You should go without me.”

You’re caring for your companion, who’s still suffering from the travel an entire day after arriving to your guest quarters in the Citadel. You’ve never stepped foot into a palace before, and though you’re loathe to admit to your intense curiosity, you thought you’d be missing the summit conferences for something better than to play nurse. Like exploring and getting into places you shouldn’t.

He’d even turned off the radio every time you tried to catch a few of the ongoings throughout the day.

The thought sounds bitter because it is, and you’re understanding even less why he’d come with you. It irritates you more that he suggests _ now, _ after missing everything for the first day, that you go without him. Which makes you feel guilty. He can’t help being sick, and you can’t help caring.

You watch him rest, fighting the sour feelings that are beginning to weigh you down. You didn’t get to witness Claustra’s speech or any of the introductions from the other leaders. Niflheim has a new prime minister who’d wanted to meet you over a trade agreement because your island is restarting production of a specific type of tobacco she prefers.

So much missed. And yes, you’re bitter. You’re trying not to be, but you are.

The day crosses into night, meals taken in your quarters between the two of you. By the time you’re crawling into bed next to him, you’ve built yourself up into a quiet upset that you can’t even express because, you remind yourself, he’s your boyfriend, and he’s only here to support you. Thankfully, he appears better on the second morning, but he shakes his head when you suggest leaving the quarters again.

“If you really need to go, then go,” he says, pausing in the breakfast that had been brought for you by Citadel staff. “But I’m not well enough to mingle with the royalty.”

Feeling uneasy about what he’s saying, you slowly nod. “Okay. Let me know if you need anything, and I’ll come back.”

He smiles, but it doesn’t conjure up the usual smile out of you in response. His attitude and behavior have been wildly inconsistent ever since the summit had been announced just a month prior. It’s almost like he hadn’t wanted you to go in the first place.

You know you’re just being paranoid. It’s your mind’s way of dealing with the unwanted power that comes along with your presidency. You didn’t want this position, and you still don’t. Providing comfort to your people, in whatever capacity, is all you strive for, and it’s the only reason you’ve made the long trip to this gods forsaken city.

Your companion isn’t going to interrupt that any longer, purposely or not.

—

You’ve been practicing Lucian for months, and despite what you’ve always considered a waste of time, you’ve actually learned a bit of the basics. Enough to get you through the brunt of the meetings throughout the morning. Enough to help you with your first—and _ only, _ gods willing—conversation with the so-called True King.

You suppose it isn’t really so-called, but it’s hard to talk to someone who looks just as awkward as you feel. He’d spoken so well in front of everyone. Of course, he’d had Tattoo and Overbite at his sides at the time, but still. Anyone would have confidence with them around. Now he’s just a man in king’s regalia, handsome but clumsy.

His departure invites a familiar face. Not one you’re particularly happy to see, but you bear it because the first thing he says to you is a rough, yet sincere, “It’s great to see you again.”

You nod at the blonde, fighting a laugh at how bad his Accordan is. He must be lying because you’d never been particularly kind to him in the past. Your fingers meet over the wineglass in your hands as you nod. “How are you?”

He has to think about it for a moment. “Bored.”

A small laugh escapes you. “So you talk to me?”

He doesn’t seem to know what to say. He shakes his head, smiles, then looks around. His hand scratches the back of his head, and pink begins to dust his freckled face. To spare yourself yet another awkward conversation with a Lucian man—you can only roll your eyes at their inherent gracelessness—you put down your wine glass and hold out a hand.

“Take off your glove. I’ll read your palm.”

He looks at you in confusion, but he listens, peeling the glove off with a look of curiosity. Several people have asked you to do this for them since you’d left your quarters. The old practice of your home is apparently eccentric enough to precede you.

Your fingertips skim over the planes and mounts of his palm. He grins when you begin to explain, and you play it up, widening your eyes in a look up at him every so often.

“Your mount of Ifrit is impressive,” you say, glancing up at him with exaggerated surprise. “Are you looking for love?”

He blinks and looks away, over your shoulder at something. You follow his gaze and see Aranea approaching. Oh. Letting go of his hand, you wave at her. Now there is someone you’re genuinely happy to see.

“Queenie, you made it.” She throws an arm over your shoulders, as if she sees you every day and the formalwear you’re donning means nothing.

Blondie clears his throat to catch the attention of you both, but his eyes are trained on Aranea. His face has grown several shades redder. Reading the situation, you duck out from under her arm and try to excuse yourself. You hear her laugh behind you as you step through the crowd. You tell yourself you’ll catch up with her later, after the excitement is over, when people are going home.

The last of the meetings are over, and you need to find Claustra to make sure you’ve covered all of your bases before you’re allowed to actually relax. She’s not going to be happy when she realizes you wasted the entire first day, but there’s nothing to do about that now. So you step through the crowds in search, keeping your conversations with anyone not Accordan to a minimum.

_ “Oh, is that her?” _

_ “It has to be— look. The crown.” _

_ “Why hasn’t the king announced it yet?” _

_ “He knows better. Announcing a new queen during the rebuilding would look bad.” _

_ “Because she’s Accordan?” _

_ “Because there are more pressing issues.” _

You stop to glance over your shoulder. The hushed Tenebraen is coming from two women, walking just steps behind you. They halt at your stare, surprise crossing their features before they look toward one another, then away. Looking between them, you frown and keep going.

Gossip is standard at events like this. You’ve learned to let it wash over you as you press forward. Claustra appears between bodies, smiling and waving you over politely. Thank the gods. You dismiss the women and put on a smile for the General Secretary.

If only gossip was so easily dispelled.

—

He’s impossible to miss, an entire head over most of the crowd. You freeze as soon as you see him, your stomach sinking to your feet. You’d been practicing an introduction in every language for weeks in preparation for this event, but nothing could equip you with the right coping skills to face this. To face him.

He walks closer, unaware of your presence as he talks with someone a few tables away. You look around for an escape route but find none. The ballroom is massive, filled with bodies, lively banter, and calm music. It’s a reception, a casual extension of the meetings for people to speak among one another before everyone parts ways the next day.

Seeing as you’ve already had your required talks with both the prime minister of Niflheim and Claustra, you have no reason to stick around any longer. He’s between you and the nearest exit, which is just your luck. Weaving your way through groups of people, you try not to look as desperate as you feel. You can’t see him now. You aren’t ready. Why is he even here?!

In your rush, you run headlong into someone. Your face hits their chest, and you stumble back, caught by large hands coming to your upper arms. The apology on your tongue falls silent as you look up, eyes widening at the person holding you. Really, this is _ just _ your luck.

“Uh, hi.” You clear your throat. “Ravus.”

He lets go of your arms, nodding at your greeting. It sends an unwanted thrill through you to hear your name in his voice. You step back, eyes wandering over his new appearance. It’s… a lot of white. You recognize the Tenebraen royal crest on this new, long, accented frock and wonder if he’s one of the king’s knights now. 

“Representing your homestead, too?” You’re asking to fill the air. Because he’s staring. You’re both staring, and it doesn’t do well to have a pocket of isolated silence in an otherwise loud room.

He nods.

You nod.

Silence.

Right, you should go.

“I’d worried you weren’t in attendance,” he says, just as you’re about to make an excuse to leave. “I’m pleased to see you again. You’re a vision this evening.”

You grow still, not knowing what to say. His eyes shift upward, to your hair, and you self-consciously touch your head. Oh. Oh no. Your fingers graze the diadem tucked into your locks. It seemed the most appropriate thing to wear. It’s definitely the fanciest thing you own.

In hopes of drawing attention away from this embarrassment, you drop your hand and say, “I didn’t expect to see you here. I’m actually supposed to visit Tenebrae soon to meet with the king about some supposed sacred land on our west coast.”

He arches a brow. “Is that so? I’ve heard tell the king has been attempting to reconnect with his Oracle ancestry.”

“It sounded like that from the letter he sent me.” You’re thankful for the turn in conversation. “He must _ really _ be reaching to contact my tiny island over it.”

He nods again, pursing his lips for a moment before asking, “You believe he may be concerned over superfluous things?”

You blink at the sudden question. “No. I mean, I don’t know. I haven’t met him.”

Ravus crosses his arms, and you realize you’re speaking far too candidly of what must be his boss. Not only his boss, but his sovereign.

“Listen, he sent a letter to my office. That’s all.” You lift your hands as if to placate. The last thing you need is political drama over a perceived slight. “It was typed in tiny font and totally impersonal, so I have no opinion of the man whatsoever.”

Ravus is having none of it. “I implore you to speak your mind.”

“Why, so you can tell him?” You look around, becoming paranoid that your relations with Tenebrae are worsening by the second with this single conversation. Several people are looking between you and Ravus, and it doesn’t settle well within. You face him with a frown. “You know what, I _ have _ been overhearing some things about him since I arrived, but it’s only talk about his new queen. Maybe she’s the one pressuring him to dig into his Oracle roots.”

Ravus lifts a hand to his chin, tilting his head thoughtfully. “A valid supposition.”

You shrug, not sure why you’re continuing this nonsense. This is the part you hate about your position, the talking, the rumors, the guesswork that goes into figuring out the motives of others.

If the king of Tenebrae has a mysterious new wife, what should you care? Talk of it has been following you through the ballroom. Good for her, you think. It’s about time an Accordan became royalty. Good for him, too. You’ll be sure to congratulate him if you happen to meet him before you leave. Maybe you could get the discussion about the sacred ground out of the way, too, to spare you a trip to Tenebrae in the future. Because you certainly have no reason to visit the little kingdom now; you’ve seen Ravus.

Curiosity sated.

“Are you alright?”

The question breaks you out of the mental spiral you’d suddenly fallen into. You look up at Ravus, opening your mouth to say you’re fine. What comes out is, “It’s overwhelming being a leader.”

He hums an agreement, his crossed arms dropping to his sides. “How are you faring as president? I should’ve asked sooner, I apologize.”

You shake your head. “It’s hard, but things keep getting smoother.” Truthfully, your people are prospering without your help now. Once the official president takes office in a few month’s time, you’ll have nothing to do. You push that worry to the back of your mind. “What about you? Do you like being a knight or… what exactly do you do?”

He looks down, to the sword at his belt, then to an ornate cuff on his sleeve. When his eyes meet yours next, he begins to say something that’s interrupted by your phone ringing from your pocket.

A blush comes to your face as you dig it out. “Sorry. One second.”

Bringing it to your ear, you don’t get a sound out before you’re met with your companion’s wailing. He’s lying in torment, alone in your guest quarters. You’ve only been gone since morning, a scant few hours ago, but he’s acting as if he’s dying. Ire blooms between your eyes, a headache at being interrupted while you’re speaking with someone so important.

Except that’s the wrong way to react, and you know it. You shouldn’t treat your companion this way when he’s the only one who’s stuck by your side through everything. You’re not going to let your paranoia over his recent behavior get the best of you. You give him a few comforting words before ending the call and turning to Ravus.

“I have to go. It was nice seeing you again.” You mean it, sending a smile up to him.

He doesn’t smile back. “Must you leave so soon?”

You nod reluctantly. “It’s my boyfriend. He’s sick in our room right now.”

Ravus’ eyes widen, a rare look of surprise gracing his sharp features. “You’ve begun seeing someone?”

All you can do is nod. It may be a massive assumption, but aren’t you meant to move on without him? He’d said he has no place in your life.

His jaw tightens and relaxes. “You should remove the diadem.”

Suddenly confused, you send him a look. “What? But I—” Your hand lifts up to touch it gently. “Why?”

He sends a broad glance around you. “To prevent further misunderstanding.”

You take a step back, away from him. This sudden shift in him is making you uncomfortable. “What’s there to misunderstand? I wore it because it’s the only thing I own that’s fit to be worn in audience with royalty.”

His eyes meet yours again, his eyebrows furrowing in consternation. “You’re perfectly fit as you are.”

Your mouth opens, then closes. This conversation isn’t making much sense anymore, and it’s becoming frustrating. You need to go. Taking another step back, you drop your hand to your side and look down at it. You _ really _ need to go. Now. Your companion is suffering. But you can’t take another step. Not without a few last words.

“I’m wearing it because I miss you, Ravus.” You make yourself look up to meet his eyes. “It makes me feel strong and— and beautiful. I don't know what you’re misunderstanding, but I won’t take it off.”

You don’t wait for him to respond, turning hard on your heel to beeline for the nearest exit.

—

Your companion is warm but not to an alarming degree. You sit on the edge of the bed, touching his cheeks and forehead. He’s curled up with the most pitiful look on his face.

“I don’t think fevers are a symptom of motion sickness,” you say.

“Maybe I have a cold. I’ve been feeling off since last week.”

“Then you shouldn’t have come with me.” You remove your hands to frown at him. “Is there anything I can get you?”

He reaches for one of your hands and holds it tightly. “Your presence is enough.”

You smooth hair out of his face, trying to dredge up a smile. There are too many thoughts going through your mind, predominantly negative. About him. About Ravus. About yourself, mostly.

“Did you talk to the King of Tenebrae?”

Your companion punctuates the question with a cough that you lean away from.

“No. I didn’t see him, but there were a lot of rumors going around.”

You see an odd bit of what looks like relief cross his face. “Rumors?”

“Yeah, he has a new wife or something.” You free your hand from his as you stand up, walking across the room to get a glass of water for him. “Did he have a wife when you met with him in Altissia last month?”

He huffs a light laugh. “Nah, but you don’t usually bring your significant other on political trips. The guy moves fast. The sun’s only been back for how long, a year now?”

You say nothing of the irony in what he’s said. Retaking your place on the edge of the bed, you wait for him to sit up to drink the water.

“I heard she’s mysterious, his wife. That she might even be from Accordo.”

He coughs on the water halfway through the sip, spilling it on himself. “Oh, is that right?”

You shrug. “No one told me directly, but I overheard a lot. It seemed like all anyone was talking about.”

Wiping his mouth with the sleeve of his shirt, he glances up at your hair. You know he’s looking at the comb, but you don’t understand why. He likely knows exactly why you’re wearing it, which is why you aren’t going to tell him about running into Ravus. He hasn’t given you a headscarf in all of your months together, hasn’t so much as hinted at it. He has no room for opinions on what you wear.

You hate to think it, will hate to voice it to him once you return, but he really has no room for opinions on _ anything _ in your life. The only thing you can’t believe is how it took seeing Ravus again to make you realize it.

—

The paper is folded and smoothed out over and over again. You leave it on your coffee table to look at it as you walk through your flat. With no office to go to anymore—a week of freedom from the presidency—you’ve become a homebody.

Everything is spotless. You’ve even cooked meals beforehand, enough neatly stored in your fridge for at least a week in advance. You’ve read through most of your books and continue to expertly but kindly blow off your ex-boyfriend. Diplomatic conflict resolution is the only thing you’ve mastered from being president.

So… on the outside, it may look like you’re living your best life, and not spiralling closer to a breakdown by the day.

You dust the top of your bookshelf, the only thing you’d brought from Lucis, and slowly glance over your shoulder at the paper. It’s haunting you, has been since it arrived in your personal post box just a day after you’d let the new president take over. You’ve somehow offended the King of Tenebrae. That must be it. There is no other explanation.

Going to your kitchen, you focus on brewing coffee. You’ve had four cups today, but what’s another? What you really wish for is a cigarette. You stamp on your yearning while you wait, fingertips tapping along the countertop, your eyes following the slow drip of pure caffeine.

Even with it in a warm mug in your hand moments later, leaving a light sting at your lips on the first sip, you walk directly to the letter. Maybe if you stare at it hard enough, it’ll catch fire. Then, you could pretend you’d never seen it.

Sitting down, you pick it up for what has to be the tenth time that morning alone. The bottom of the page is marked, in place of an actual signature, with the same crest you’d seen on Ravus’ elaborate clothing during the summit. The pegasus looks so much like something you’d dreamed of wearing on a headscarf as a kid. Which is a vague thought that turns your stomach as you read the absurd contents of the letter itself.

__

> _It’s understood that your presidency will conclude by the time this reaches you. I’m certain, given the praises of you that have met me over recent months, you must have great plans for your time spent after leaving your post. I write to you in a bid to offer an alternative to what you may have planned for your future.  
_
> 
> _ Tenebrae is a small kingdom, nary larger than the island you call home. It is in need of a soft, experienced hand such as yours to act as a complement to my own, admittedly, stern way of conducting things. I’ve heard tell of your wit and endurance through others, and I must admit, it has riled great interest within me over you for numerous moons. It is for this reason among many, disregarding all commitments you may have by way of romantic interest, I ask one question of you: _
> 
> _ Marry me. _
> 
> _ I’m aware of the countless rumors about myself and a new spouse I’ve supposedly kept hidden during the summit some months back. Those were not entirely baseless. I’d been foolish enough to share my intent to court you with a friend in attendance at the event, and had allowed the misunderstanding to grow. I haven’t a wife, but I am in dire want of one. I shamelessly hope for it to be no one else but you. _
> 
> _ I await your response with great patience._

You take a long—very, very long—drink of coffee and think.

There are _ so _ many things wrong with the letter. Firstly, it’s typed. Not printed from a computer, but marked with the ink of an old fashioned typewriter. Is the ruler of Tenebrae so aged and distant that he feels this degree of formality necessary?

Secondly, he doesn’t address you by name, nor does he sign his own at the end. The aggression of his abrupt _ Marry me _ alone is off putting. It’s not even a question!

And thirdly, what was that about ignoring your romantic commitments? It’s as if he somehow already knows you’re still in love with Ravus—

You bring the paper closer to your face. Wait… Ravus is the friend he mentions. He _ has _ to be. Your stomach begins to curl inward and twist painfully. Likely a reaction to far too much coffee, although you feel the timing is apt. Ravus had known the king’s intentions the entire time, and he’d played along with you during the summit.

You feel like an idiot.

Putting the letter down, you drink the rest of your coffee and come to a stand. It takes a bit of traversing through your flat and digging to find your stationery. You haven’t had the need for it since leaving office, and part of you wonders if it’s bad taste to use it with the now outdated presidential letterhead.

It doesn’t stop you, in any case. Stomach pains be damned, you suddenly have a voice.

__

> _Let me begin by saying I am flattered. Greatly. To receive a letter from a king is an honor, even if it is by far the most impersonal one that I’ve ever read. I’m sorry to disappoint you, but the answer to your proposal has to be a solid, unwavering ‘no’.  
_
> 
> _ I can’t marry you for a long list of reasons, the most important being that I have no idea who you are or what kind of person you may be. We have never met or spoken with each other. I have no idea what you look like or why you would choose me, out of all others on Eos, to pose this question to. _
> 
> _ So rather than list the reasons why I can’t marry you, I’ll explain why you shouldn’t want to marry me. _
> 
> _ Your Accordan is clearly very fluent, but my own skill with Tenebraen is rough and unpracticed. You have to agree that can’t be a good quality in a wife or queen. The people of your kingdom need someone who can reach a mutual understanding with them when issues arise. _
> 
> _ I was a leader for a short time. I’m not sure what you could’ve heard about me that would impress any kind of miraculous competence that isn’t also found in many others, but I’m only one woman. I was president of my small region for less than a year. Perhaps you heard good things about me because there just hadn’t been enough time for me to fail. _
> 
> _ My prior commitments in terms of love, as you’d so graciously put it, are too important for me to abandon. As uncomfortable as it makes me, I will point out that you know precisely the man who’s taken precedence in my past and my heart. You may be able to set aside your own love for the duties placed on you as king, but I’m incapable of that. If we married, I would always yearn for him the way I do now. Does a wife who is forever looking at someone else appeal to you? _
> 
> _ I should hope not. _
> 
> _ I send this with the highest regards, and I wish you luck in your search for a suitable partner. _

You put it in an envelope without reading it over. When you shove it into the slot of the post pickup box, you have second thoughts. They’re fleeting, beset with alarm while your fingers pry at the lock mechanism on the box. Then you realize it’s silly to worry. Because there is no way—absolutely _ no way_—the king will reply.

Only he does.

You read it on your front stoop after taking it out of your postbox, impatient for what it contains.

__

> _I admire the prudence in your response. You are indeed only one woman, and you’ve accomplished a great amount in such a short span of time. Which is why the thought to ask for your hand had come about to begin with. I’m fascinated and impressed by you.   
_
> 
> _ As for the reference to your previous lover, I do admit to a fair amount of knowledge on the man in question. The news of your separation from him misled me into believing that you were over the affair. I’m unfamiliar with the depth of your relations, and I have no need nor want for any information on the matter. _
> 
> _ I, too, know the familiar aches of the heart and soul. There is a woman I’d met and befriended years ago in Lucis that I think about to this very day. It was selfish and presumptive of me to ask that you disregard your romantic interest when my own will surely burn for ages more. _
> 
> _ You are correct in your assumption that I am willing to place that aside for the good of my kingdom. It has dealt great damage to my bond with her, something I’ve come to regret with increasing intensity as time passes. There are ways in which you may find we are strikingly similar, although perhaps not for the best. _
> 
> _ Two damaged beings does not a perfect relationship make, after all. _
> 
> _ Nevertheless, I stand firmly by the notion that we could flourish with one another. I’m abashed to say your determination beguiles me further, but I respect your rejection and accept that you don’t wish to be with someone you don’t know from Ifrit. _
> 
> _ Fenestala Manor is always open to you, should you wish to ever change the status of our acquaintanceship._

You don’t understand. Once you’re inside, the letter goes next to the previous on your coffee table. You walk to the kitchen to make coffee, change your mind, and return to the living room to pick up the letter again.

His home is always open? What kind of person offers something like that to a perfect stranger? Your brow furrows, and the papers crinkle in your hands. None of this makes any damn sense.

—

_ “Con-gra-tu-la-tions.” _

The Lucian tastes as terrible as it always does coming out of your mouth. Your knowledge is still limited, but this is the first wedding you’ve ever been to in your life. And you feel you owe Aranea this much, since she’s made the worst possible choice ever by marrying a Lucian. She hugs you, then pushes you on to Overbite who politely takes your hand.

_ “Congratulations,” _ you repeat, giving his hand a squeeze.

He thanks you and moves you forward just like Aranea had. You get why. The size of the wedding is immense. But it leaves you a tad disoriented being rushed about. You walk toward a familiar freckled face, your smile more genuine than it has ever been toward this particular person.

Of course, Blondie has very little to offer by way of conversation, considering the language barrier. He says something in Lucian and chuckles. You nod as if you totally get it.

“You know,” you say, pretending he can understand. “The groom used to be in love with me.”

He responds in Lucian, tilting his head back and forth while his foot taps on the floor.

“I’m sorry he stole your crush,” you add, touching his arm. “Aranea has questionable judgement, but you have to admit… he is taller and knows how to speak proper Accordan.”

He looks at your hand on his arm and chuckles again when you let go. The silence that follows is… pleasant. You look away from him to the wide expanse of the bay and take a deep breath in. The air is salty and the sky is bright. Galdin Quay has only ever been a pitstop in the past. You realize now that you’ve been missing out.

Gentle notes begin to lilt through the air. They blend with the rush of the waves on the shore. You want to take off your shoes and climb down the pier to dip your feet into the water.

“You— um. You dance me?”

You look over to Blondie, realizing he’s offering out a hand. You hesitate before taking it, biting back a snicker at his poor Accordan. “Yeah, I’ll dance you.”

He hums to the music, and the laugh tumbles out of you. He doesn’t stop like you expect. His humming becomes singing, matched by his clumsy dance moves. It makes you laugh harder, until you have to cover your mouth to keep from laughing over the music.

You close your eyes and make rounds of the dancefloor with this idiot. When he dips you, your eyes crack open in surprise. His eyes are wide, like he hadn’t expected this himself. You smile at the momentary finesse, but it fades when he brings you upright. Over his shoulder, you see it. You see him.

Ravus is dancing, which is a sight you never thought you’d witness. You’d known he was there when you’d arrived. He and Aranea are close friends, even now. So far, you’ve been able to avoid him. Not that you’re avoiding him. Because you aren’t.

You stop in place, dropping your hands from Blondie. Ravus hasn’t noticed you. He’s dancing with a woman you don’t recognize. They’re close. Uncomfortably close. Pain blooms in your chest at the way his arm curls around the woman’s waist. She’s pressed against him while they move. Like she’s meant to be there.

A grip on your hand draws you from the scene, and you’re forced to look away. Blondie leads you through the throngs of people, breaking through to walk down the long walkway leading to the beach. When you tug at your hand, he lets go, sparing a look back at you.

You quicken your pace and pass him. Until you’re running. Your heels clack loudly against the wood, a thunderous sound that’s drowned out by the music radiating from the reception. Once on land, you kick off your shoes and leave them behind. The sand is gritty between your toes, and the closer you grow to the water’s edge, the more compact it becomes. You don’t stop until saltwater laps at your ankles.

The sun shines off the surface, glittery and beautiful. The party is distant, but the music carries, slowing to something softer and sweeter. You feel a hand on your shoulder and shrug it off in response. Looking to your side, you find Blondie giving you an uncertain look.

“Who is she?” You don’t know why you’re asking, and it doesn’t really matter. “Why is he hurting me?”

He shakes his head, his shoulders lifting in a shrug.

“It’s not about me, is it?” Your toes dig into the sand as you curl them. “He’s just having a nice time. I’m the one still thinking about him.” Your hands smooth down the skirt of your dress uselessly. The wind blows through, and you sink to the ground. “I’m talking to a guy who has no clue what I’m saying.”

Blondie hums, then speaks a string of unfamiliar Lucian. You don’t look up until he begins to walk away. By the time he’s crossing the long pier, you realize even he’s done with you. Covering your face with your hands, you simmer in your shame. Spilling your thoughts out to a stranger is off putting even with a language barrier.

You sigh and try to make yourself smaller. If you’re minimized, so is the pain. Nothing should hurt this much with the sun and sky so bright. The muted crunch of the sand behind you doesn’t come to your attention until something breaks into the periphery of your vision. An outstretched hand holding a plate of food.

You’d had the chickatrice dish at the beginning of the reception when you’d listened but not understood most of the Lucian toasts made by Overbite’s friends. This is a dessert, though, and the scent of coffee has your hands falling from your face.

“Tiramisù,” you blurt, looking from the dish to the person offering it to you.

Ravus stands at his full height, but because he’s further down the slope of the beach, his reach is fairly close to your face. A plethora of options come to you when you realize what’s happened. You could… knock the dish out of his hand. Cover your face again to pretend he isn’t there. Stand up and leave without acknowledging him. Give him a simple “no, thank you” to send him away.

The thoughts make their way through your mind, extending his wait. Because of this, the options begin to dwindle. He’ll leave on his own if you say nothing. He’ll understand that you can’t be around him, but he’ll miss the underlying point that you want to be around him more than anyone else present at this wedding, the guest list of which seems to span the entirety of Eos.

You look past him to the long walkway leading to the resort’s main building out on the open bay. A quarter of the way down, not far away, Blondie is speaking with the woman Ravus had been dancing with. He’s holding a camera, and whatever he’s saying, it’s making her nod.

Gods, she’s this beautiful, waif-like person. It’s unimaginable, almost, that someone like this exists. Your envy is almost overpowered by awe. She leans against the railing as Blondie lifts the camera to his eye. You don’t know if he’s sent Ravus your way on purpose, or if getting the other man to you was just a bonus in getting a photograph of her.

Finally, feeling the grit of the sand sink between your toes again, you come to a stand and face Ravus. The plate is cold against your hands, a heavy, eggshell white ceramic. You hold it without looking at it, the fork next to the slice of tiramisù quietly scraping as it shifts along the surface.

“Thank you.”

Ravus nods.

“I’d almost rather have a cigarette right now.”

“As would I.” He turns, just enough to settle near you. Not next to you, but _ close. _ It saves you from having to look directly at him. The bay glitters ahead. “Although I’ve quit the habit.”

You nod and trace the water’s edge with your eyes. “Me, too.”

His feet shift over the sand. You feel the grains hit your bare ankles with the wind. His voice is lower when he speaks. “I’ve taken to eating sweets to placate the old desire. It doesn’t quite… replicate the feeling.”

Your grip on the plate tightens, and your gaze trails back to the walkway where Blondie continues to photograph the beautiful woman. “I drink a lot of coffee now. I hope the stuff grows on me soon.”

He hums briefly and quietly. “You have a distaste for coffee, yet you enjoy tiramisù.” It’s not a question, but you feel like it should be.

“Sweets aren’t doing it for you, but you like tiramisù enough to hold a grudge over it,” you retaliate quietly. The fork on the plate scrapes again as you tilt the dish back and forth a little.

“It was never about the tiramisù.”

Ravus turns, and you know he’s looking at you. You can feel it. Rather than meeting his eyes, you keep watching the woman. She leans against the railing with grace only possible from someone with _ that _ much leg to offer.

“She seems… sweet.”

“She is.” The answer is curt, reminding you of the Ravus from before. Before you’d known him and the deeper depths of his soft center. Before he’d known you and the pains you’ve endured to reach this point. “A bachelor nearing forty isn’t acceptable for someone in my station. If I’m expected to marry, it may as well be to someone who understands joie de vivre.”

Your lip curls at the Tenebraen, at everything he’s saying. You look down at the tiramisù. Marriage? That’s— You hold up the plate, the edges of your vision beginning to blur.

“Here.”

He doesn’t immediately take it, and you push it toward him. You don’t care if it stains his obnoxiously white clothes. A heavy blink of your eyes doesn’t abate the moisture, and you let go of the plate with one hand to wipe at them. He finally takes the dish once you’ve gotten rid of the threat of tears.

You smile though the rebuilding wetness. You have no reason to cry. Except out of happiness. Aranea and Overbite are great people who deserve each other. You should go and properly congratulate them now that the lines of people have died down around the newlyweds.

The wet sand crunches softly underfoot, sticking to your feet with every step as you go around him. A touch on your arm stops you, and you shrug it off as quickly as it comes. Ravus looks down at you as if you’re hiding something. His eyes search your face, for what you can’t possibly figure out.

“Please,” you say, hoping he’d stop looking at you that way. “Enjoy the tiramisù. Now we’re even.”

You leave him there, not content to leave things that way but finding no other choice. You have nothing to hide. You’ve tried everything you could think of to make it work with him. Apparently, he was planning a marriage with someone else all along. No wonder his king thought it a good idea to propose. You must be a grand joke to them both.

No. To Ravus, sure. But the king had seemed sincere in his awfully impersonal and strange letters. You made your way across the sunny beach, a new decision solidifying itself in your mind.

—

You’d been misled about Tenebrae. It’s much larger than your small island. At least, it seems so during the train ride to Fenestala Manor.

You use much of the trip to brush up on the language. You want to impress the king. He says he’s already impressed with you, but seeing things first hand can change a person’s perspective rather quickly.

He knows you’re visiting, but he doesn’t know why. It’s better that way, you think. If he knows you’re coming to say yes to his proposal, he may tell Ravus. You want to be there to see his face when he finds out that you’re going to be his queen. It may be the pettiest thing to have happened since Ifrit turning on humanity, but you didn’t endure an entire evening of Ravus doting on that gorgeous woman at Aranea’s wedding just to sit idly by.

There was also the issue of more rumors about the king. That he’d tried to begin a courtship with another woman since proposing to you, and it hadn’t worked out. You don’t want the king to think your decision to change your mind had anything to do with that.

The air around the palace is misty when you step off the platform and follow an attendant across high bridges and through tall entranceways. It feels strange, thicker than the air should be so high up a mountain. Like you’re walking through a veil, magic rolling over and off of you with every step. Strange but oddly comforting. Familiar, somehow. The feeling settles in your stomach as you enter the throne room.

It’s empty save for a man standing near the throne. Given your luck, you’re not shocked to see that it’s Ravus. He must be the king’s personal guard, just as you’d assumed. It explains so much— his ridiculous clothes, his seriousness. Your mind nearly wanders to thoughts of what he’d done before joining the Imperial army. Was this why he’d been a capable commander?

Fighting those thoughts with a gentle shake of your head, you stop at the foot of the dais leading up to the throne. The attendant who’d led you all the way there turns on his heel and leaves you without so much as an explanation. Would the king be here soon? The attendant had seemed to know exactly who you were and who you were meeting with. Maybe this is normal, and you have to be given the okay by the king’s guard first.

Which is fine. Ravus knows you. And that’s more than you could say about anyone else.

“Hello, Ravus.”

His eyebrows arch, perfect silver lines over mismatched eyes. “You’re here.”

It nearly makes you laugh. You _ are _ here. So is your bookshelf, in a crate likely being lugged off of the train right now. It’s the only way you can tell yourself this is serious. You’ve brought your one prized possession—aside from the diadem resting safely in the small suitcase you’re carrying—to be sure there’s no going back. Not from this. Accordo doesn’t need you anymore, and you— you’re not alright with being alone.

You only wish you could’ve made it work with Ravus. He looks magnificent, regal in his own way that you can’t imagine the king could ever come close to matching. 

“Yeah, I’m here. I’m here to…” You swallow, but it’s difficult. Saliva feels thick in your throat, and suddenly, awfully, you’re beginning to think you shouldn’t have come. You can’t finish the thought because it's hitting you that you can’t actually go through with this.

You could’ve brought your entire flat and the population of adoring island citizens with you, and it wouldn’t be enough.

“Tell your king I’m sorry,” you blurt. “I can’t marry him. I thought I could, but I— there’s no way.” You grip the handle of your suitcase so hard, your knuckles begin to burn. “Not when I’m still in love with you.”

To his credit, Ravus reacts less stoically than usual. His mouth opens, and he blinks once, twice, before looking away. “I’ll relay the message.”

It’s not at all what you want to hear, but you nod anyway.

He steps down from the dais, passing you on his way out of the room. Your stomach sinks once the doors close behind him, leaving you alone in the massive throne room. You bring your free hand to meet the other over the handle of your suitcase. Maybe you should get back on the train and ride it all the way to Niflheim. Start over there. Open a bordello of your own. You know the language and you’re familiar with the work.

The spiral of thoughts is interrupted by the sight of several paintings. Your eyes roam over them while you wait for either Ravus’ return or the king finally choosing to deign you with an appearance, and you’re stilled when your gaze meets one particular portrait.

It’s a woman, beautiful in an ethereal, proud sort of way. She appears to be sitting, a trident resting in a relaxed grip next to her. You step closer, craning your neck to get a better look. The sinking feeling and spiralling thoughts come to a complete halt. Because, while there are several portraits in this room alone, none are as interesting as this one.

Fumbling with the clasps of your suitcase, you put it on the marble floor and kneel to open it. Suddenly impatient, you have to be sure. Like everything now, it doesn’t make any sense. Still, you _ need _ to know. You hear the doors opening behind you but don’t stop in digging through your clothes to get to the diadem.

You come to a stand once you’ve found it and look between it and the painting. There it is. On her head and in your hands. The same jeweled comb. Looking to the doorway, you see Ravus approaching. His face has grown a twinge pink, and his eyes are alight. You have no time to address that, more concerned with the mess of thoughts overwhelming your mind.

“Who is she?”

His gaze shifts from you to the painting. He stands a little taller, his hands meeting behind his back. The pink begins to fade from his face, but his expression softens. “The late queen Sylva. She was an Oracle.”

You bring up the comb in attempt to underline your confusion. “She’s— I mean, it’s—”

Before you can stop him, he takes it from you. “She was my mother.”

Your hands drop, shock overtaking all other feelings. Thoughts swelling inside, past events, conversations, they begin to snap into place, to make perfect sense. The convolution becomes apparent. So much so, you feel like screaming when he has the audacity to brush strands of hair behind your ear to tuck the diadem onto the crown of your head. Once his hands leave you, it’s a feat to not rip it from your hair out of frustration alone.

You stare up at him, eyes eating at the excitement and warmth building in his expression. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I made attempts to confess.”

“You did _ not._”

“You wouldn't hear it. I’ve tried to tell you for some time.”

You gape at him, and warmth, stronger than his large hands that come to take your own and thicker than the magic that permeates the Tenebraen air, begins to bud in your chest. “So you propose to me with a typed letter? Are you _ insane, _ Ravus?”

“I never imagined it would take you this long to come to the proper conclusions.”

“So it’s _ my _ fault now?”

“I’ve mentioned your ignorance more than once, I believe.”

He brings you closer by the hands, and you step forward until pressed against him, both your face and your words heated.

“You are fucking—” You take in a deep breath and release it through your nose. “This is unbelievable.”

Leaning down, he speaks softer, sweeter. As if he’s about to share a secret. Even though no one else is in the room. “Now knowing the truth, does what you claimed before remain unchanged?”

Your eyes grow lidded, focusing on the way his lips move just a breath above your own. You can’t believe he’s asking this. You can’t believe he’s done any of the absurd things that have happened.

“You should’ve told me back then, in the darkness.”

The corners of his mouth curl downward just the slightest. “It held no importance then. In the darkness, we were two people finding solace in one another.”

Too much is happening. Moisture is building at the corners of your eyes. The spike of emotion is too intense. “And now?”

Ravus leans closer, his forehead touching yours. “I’m daring to hope my proposal will be met with an answer.”

You blink, fruitlessly fighting the tears. They spill over, wiped away a moment later by the brush of his hand.

“Yes.” A laugh is tumbling out of you next, the initial shock fading into amused disbelief. “I don’t want to be with anyone else, even though you’re completely—”

He interrupts you with a hand touching your nape, his lips firmly meeting yours. Your hands, free of his now as he holds you, clutch at the front of his shirt. He tilts your head _ just so _ to deepen the contact, and you melt further into his broad chest. You’d thought the embrace from before, the one you’d shared before parting in Accordo, had been the pinnacle. But this is it.

This makes every moment in the darkness worth it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want every ending for Ravus to be a happy one, even one as abrupt as this. I like not knowing what they could do next. Probably more arguing. Definitely more kissing lmao  
Here's a [song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hbNQK30VHHk) I almost named this story after because it encapsulates the general feeling of this whole thing.  
Thanks for coming along with me and these two dummies. <3


End file.
